


Life of Cas

by Cerdic519



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: deancasbigbang, DCBB2014, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Portals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:14:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 79,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate is a bitch, and Braton Stone knows two things are for sure. First, he is going to have a son called Castiel. And second, he's going to have to kill him. He's going to kill his own son. </p><p>Then again, he's kind of a god. Which means he knows that you have to sometimes bend the rules just a little to get that happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the DeanCas Big Bang Challenge 2014. Art by the wonderful TeamAbodo.

[](http://fav.me/d81zkm6)   


This is 'The Life of Cas'. And that title should immediately tell the reader two things:  
1) The story will explain how and why Castiel came into being, and thus the appearance of said character will not occur until at least some way through it. Especially as he gets born once, twice or three times, depending how you count it.  
2) The story will inevitably, at some point, describe the death of Cas (once or twice, again depending on how you count it). And what happened thereafter.

This story also centres around prophecies, which of course always come true. Although not always in the way those affected expect. 

And finally, this story is about fairy-tales, a fluffy piece of escapism which humanoids across the galaxy use to distract themselves, however momentarily, from their humdrum existences. Except that much of this story is set on a magical world, which means that fact and fiction, like an overworked god, tend to get a bit confused....


	2. Some Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little knowledge.... on this world can prevent you from sitting on a lily-pad, waiting for a short-sighted Prince Charming to wander by.

Extracts from Galactipedia:

'Arcania (star system)  
A small system on the edge of the galaxy, in a loose chain of worlds called 'the Withered Arm' that stretch out from Galaxy 1 (named in some cultures after a princess) towards Galaxy 2 (named in some cultures after an item of confectionery). It consists of two stars; a primary yellow-green main sequence type orbited by ten planets and a shallow outer asteroid belt, plus a secondary red dwarf star sixteen times further out than the belt. Arcania I, II, VI and X are armpit worlds, III and V are borderline habitable, and VII through IX are gas giants. Arcania IV, in the centre of the habitable zone, is the only life-bearing planet. 

Arcania IV  
A magical world, commonly just called Arcania. It is the only inhabited planet in the Arcania star system, and the only known inhabited magical world in Galaxy 1. It has two medium-sized moons, locked in a 2:1 synchronous orbit.   
Sex: Although the world is standard-analogous to non-magical worlds in most ways, a major difference is gender. All humanoid species are, in appearance, anatomically male, and their gender depends on their magical aura, which has both a primary and a secondary element to it. Alphas (10%) have both set to positive, whilst betas (39%) have a positive primary and negative secondary element. Both are capable of reproducing with omegas (50%), who have both elements set to negative. This enables the latter, once impregnated, to form and carry a temporary third element that can split off to form a new-born baby. There are also gammas (1%), with a negative primary and positive secondary element to their auras. They are infertile, but this (im)balance makes them potentially powerful, as it somehow renders them resistant to most magic.   
Mating happens in the standard way (see diagram on page 317). When it comes to sex, Arcanians take a laid-back approach (in both senses); most towns have whore houses, working in which carries no social stigma, and it is traditional for young men to visit these places on their coming-of-age. Note that pregnant omegas always wear a prominent red item of clothing, usually a headband or bandanna, and striking one is a surprisingly effective way to get yourself killed, as it will incur the wrath of every humanoid in the vicinity.  
Note also that, unlike most worlds, unions between siblings (which because of the magical auras cannot produce offspring) are frowned upon, but are accepted provided the parents approve.  
Races: The predominant races are humans (just under 80%) and elves (just under 20%). The former are divided amongst many nations (see Geography, below), whilst the latter also face divisions between the different sub-types – Mountain, Forest, Wood, etc.), which have led to a slow but steady decline as human numbers grow. The mostly magical sub-races keep themselves to themselves, and tend to avoid humans as a rule.  
Gods: The most powerful beings on Arcania are the Five Ancient Gods. These are Kaos and his four sons; Vian (magic), Arkon (Arcania and the heavens), Mors (death and the Netherworld) and Chronos (time and space). Below these are the second-level gods, their fifteen sons, and third-level gods, their sixty-two grandsons. The two hundred and five (at the last count) fourth-level great-grandsons are ranked as demigods. Sometimes a mortal hero may achieve demigod status through some great feat or achievement.   
Geography: 70% water, 30% land. The four main continents are arrayed in a loose square, separated by four seas (unoriginally the North, South, East and West Seas). 'Round the back' there is the much larger and rougher (and also unoriginally named) Great Sea. There are also ice-caps at the north and south poles.  
Northern hemisphere: 2 continents, 1 subcontinent  
Irilia – home to the oldest civilizations, with the narrow Azurian Isthmus in the south-east linking it to the subcontinent of Talonia. Important countries: Oakland, the Talonian Empire, Vizuria, Neustria, the Barvak Republic, Bellisaria and Casonia. Oakland is the only nation to have founded brother nations elsewhere in Arcania (Gallandoria, Adonia, Centuria, Candis and Nyland).  
Dodecania – lives up to its name, as it is split into twelve kingdoms. Divided down the middle by the almost impassable Stepstone Mountains. Seven minor feuding nations to the west, but to the east the Gallandorians and the four native tribes have formed the Oltwé Alliance for trading and mutual defence.  
Southern hemisphere: 2 continents, 2 subcontinents  
Spuria – Most of the east of the continent, except for the coastal fringe, is occupied by the Wilderness, an area of wild, uncontrollable magic that is only slowly being reclaimed. Important countries: Nyland (split along the meandering River Niall between Henricus and Swordland), Allendle, the Chenzu Empire, Sassonia and Klabone.  
Adonesia (also commonly Oxania) – apart from the two elven forests and the island territories of Adonia and Centuria, virtually all of this continent is under the (mis-)rule of the Oxanian Empire, a militaristic state that stamps down hard on any dissent, and treats its provinces as piggy-banks so that people in the capital, Vacore, can live the good life.  
Candis – a minor subcontinent of three large and sixteen small islands, but politically important as it lies almost exactly midway between the four main continents, just below the Equator. Brother nation to Oakland.  
Barridge – a small island subcontinent roughly in the middle of the Great Sea. Like Casonia, a land of great magical power. It is said that the natives wear hats with corks hanging down from them, possibly a magical ward against the resident giant hopping rats.


	3. Agent 4473

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Appearances can be deceiving.

Two hundred years earlier

It probably sets the tone for this story that it starts not on some body-littered battlefield, nor in front of a castle lit by flashes of lightning, nor for that matter with any other cliché one might care to come up with. What we actually have here is a room, which seems just like many other single apartments across the galaxy. 'Seems' being the key word in that sentence, mainly because most similar apartments tend to limit themselves to the standard three dimensions. Here however, the room's owner, working as he does in all seventy-four dimensions, not unnaturally takes advantage of this fact to have his work and home areas in the same room. Just not in the same set of dimensions. This generally works well, although there are some minor side-effects which even the owner, powerful though he is, has long given up trying to stop. The reflection in the mirror never quite matches the room, snow can be found at the back of the wardrobe from time to time, and strange posters keep appearing on the cork notice-board, which currently features one of a cute puppy, one of a naval battle scene, and a red-and-white striped flag with a blue corner section containing fifteen white stars. Fortunately these are currently only visible in dimensions inaccessible to anyone who might happen to visit this room, otherwise such people might assume that the owner has somehow visited the world these come from, which would be strange as said world is in another galaxy. And even for this race, travelling such distances is virtually impossible.

Sharp-eyed readers will have spotted the 'virtually' in there. The owner's colleagues can travel a distance of a few light-years fairly easily, but whilst it would be possible for one of them to cross intergalactic space to reach the world where these strange posters come from, there would be the marginal inconvenience of said agent having to spend several thousand years making the journey. There is, as so often, a way to make said journey much more quickly, but for a reason of his own the owner of this room has seen fit not to apprise his 'superiors' of that fact, a reason which will emerge as this story progresses, but which centres around one of the core elements of his job, which is first and foremost to ensure the continued survival of his race. The lengths to which he will go to achieve that end are considerable, up to and including the removal of anyone who tries to get in his way. And the imperilment of his own continued existence, if necessary.

The room is currently set to 'work' mode, which means there is a desk with a chair that, unusually for such a set-up, is actually comfortable. There is also the standard visitor's chair, of the sort which sinks so far down that one might as well sit on the floor and have done with it. The multicoloured rug looks like it was created by sticking cheap carpet sample tiles together (most probably because it was), but at least it detracts from the virulently orange curtains and the magenta bedspread The lesson one may deduce from all this is that, no matter how high up the evolutionary ladder some species manage to climb, finding and maintaining good taste is always a tough nut to crack. 

There are two other items in the room which will shortly prove fundamental to this story. The first is a single book on a small side-table, which looks to all intents and purposes like a child's storybook. The title, 'Happily Ever After?', suggests that indeed it is. The second item is a framed picture on the desk. It shows a young, black-winged humanoid, caught drinking a strange yellow drink at a table with froth all over his upper lip, his blue eyes sparkling with joy and a smile creasing his lips. Like the book and the wall 'art', it is neatly stashed away in some set of dimensions unavailable to potential visitors, though even if it was not, there is also the small matter of the subject of the picture not having been born. 

Yet.

The room's owner is currently sat cross-legged on the floor, staring into space and seemingly lost in thought. He has black hair, dark grey eyes and a nondescript, stubbled face (this last point may seem odd as like all his race he could simply will himself clean-shaven, but he has learned over time that people expect him to look worn down by his workload, so he goes along with it). He is wearing the sort of overalls that tech guys across the galaxy wear, dark blue with the number '4473' emblazoned on the chest pocket. There is also a hand-stitched label beneath it bearing the name 'Braton Eilurian Stone', for no other reason that, during some research into a vanished civilization in the Digamma Sector, he had found it in some records and had taken a liking to it. His colleagues consider this to be one of his many quirks, but fortunately he is good enough at his job for these to be overlooked.

It should go without saying (although it's about to be said) that Braton's fellow agents are a long way further advanced down the evolutionary timeline than Earth humans – indeed, if that timeline were a marathon, they would be over halfway round whilst their Terran cousins would still be tying up their shoelaces at the start, wondering why everyone else was pushing past them. This is despite the fact that, to all intents and purposes, Braton looks exactly the sort of tech guy you might hope could repair your broken computer without giving your bank manager a heart-attack in the process. Though perhaps 'guy' is not really the right word, considering that words and their meanings are pretty important to this story. But a tech multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent is a right mouthful, and his race had tended to find that taking human form makes a lot of things easier and/or better.

Yes, sex is one of them. But that's just a coincidence. Honest.

There is a faint rustling sound as a note Is pushed under his door. Braton looks at it, and it flies across the rook to his hand. As expected, his 'superiors' wish to see him. His expression does not change as he stands up and straightens his overalls. Before he leaves, however, he looks again at the photo on the desk, and an unreadable emotion flickers briefly across his face. He knows two things for sure. 

Some day, not far enough into the future, that boy will be his son. And some day not far enough after that, he's going to have to kill him. He's going to have to kill his own flesh and blood. Castiel.

He sighs, and leaves the room. Sometimes Fate is a bitch.

+~+~+ 

Scattered around Braton's galaxy are any number of bizarre and fascinating phenomena, rather too many of which have been caused by his own race making marginal (ahem!) errors of judgement. These include a black hole with no gravity, a set of planets orbiting a star that isn't there, a planet made solely of chocolate (it was meant to be chalk, but someone had untidy writing!) and many other 'wonders' that have caused astronomers who view them to wonder 1) is there really a God, and 2) what is He on? Despite this propensity towards first-degree foul-ups, it is two wonders not of the making of Braton's colleagues that top the League of Weirdness. In second place is (or are) the seven magical worlds in the galaxy. Six of these are uninhabited, so mathematicians amongst you will therefore have calculated, hopefully correctly, that this leaves one that is inhabited. This world is called Arcania (IV), and its existence probably comes as something of a surprise. Not so much that it's magical – these things happen if you get enough time and space, just like rolling a million-sided die will eventually get you a one, unless you die of old age or boredom first – but in that Braton's 'superiors' allow such a potential rival species to continue to evolve. It might be said that they do so solely from the generosity of their souls. 

It might be said that the average politician's expenses claim form bears at least some resemblance to reality. But in both cases, anyone uttering either of those statements would be lying through their teeth. 

The reason for both Arcania's continued existence and its second-placed ranking in the League of Weirdness is what tops it in that League, namely the portal system. No-one amongst the local race knows who built it, and all attempts to control it have ended in abject - and sometimes embarrassing - failure. The system makes long-distance (as in halfway across the galaxy long-distance) travel possible by somehow tying together some of the lesser dimensions, in a way that, most annoyingly, Braton's colleagues have yet to understand. They did however learn that the system comprised both permanent and temporary portals, the former being seven in number and based on each on the seven magical worlds in their local galaxy. The difference was exposed in that temporary portals, including those generated by Braton's colleagues, had a bad habit of closing immediately an actual living being passed through them. More annoyingly, even permanent portals seemed to somehow 'remember' who had used them, and blocked that person's attempts to return the same way. It would be impolitic to mention the number of agents who ended up taking several years - and in a couple of cases, decades - to get home before this was realized, so let us be vague and just say it's an even number somewhere between 111 and 113. 

(Smarter readers may wonder at this point why someone attempting to access the system did not simply open two portals, going out by one and back by another. This was tried once, in the Cusanis star system, which cannot be found on any modern maps).

It was perhaps fortuitous that his superiors followed Braton's advice that one time they did try to harm Arcania, and practised on one of the six uninhabited magical worlds first. It turned out that the tech guy's suggestion that the portals had built-in defences to deter people misusing them was all too accurate; the system went ballistic for a week, and it took over a year to sort the whole mess out. Not only that, but the asteroid the race had sent towards their target world disappeared. Not destroyed; it just ceased to exist. And the luckless third-level operative who was directing operations got sucked into an unexpected portal that opened right next to him, and was never seen again.

There were no more attacks on Arcania. Even super-powerful beings can (eventually) take a hint.

Braton's studies had also found that the system affected all beings that pass through it, randomly changing their age and gender, although his race's magical powers offered them protection from these effects. Up to a point that was; said protection lasted for an hour at most, and distance travelled further reduced it. As with most advanced races, stupidity also emerged as a key factor; an unpleasant senior manager in one department had ignored warnings about keeping an eye on the time, and had come back as a teenage female, a form he was unable to shake off. It had taken weeks to put him right, and anyone who suspected Braton's department of not exactly hurrying to find a solution was being totally cynical (that's 'cynical' spelled C-O-R-R-E-C-T).

+~+~+

The ruling body of Braton's race was called simply The Council or The Six (they were divinely powerful, not overly imaginative). Each member was usually referred to by the coloured cloak they wore, which shimmered with powerful magic. Like all such bodies they strove to achieve a sense of balance, namely between their distrust of each other and their utter hatred of the people beneath them on the corporate ladder whom they suspected (correctly, but that's beside the point) of wanting their jobs. Braton was far, far below them on said ladder, but for reasons of his own had no aspirations to climb any higher. His ambitions lay in quite another direction.

The thing about higher management, Braton had long known, was that in many ways they were like children. Telling them they couldn't or shouldn't do something was all but guaranteed to make them want to do it. Knowing this, Braton had mentioned in his last report the unlikelihood of their being any intelligent life in an adjoining galaxy, and that the one thing his superiors should definitely not do was to try to extend their powers through the permanent portal on Arcania in an attempt to scan said other galaxy. The fact he was now heading towards the Council chamber suggested they had gone ahead and done exactly that. 

The tech guy resisted the urge to smile. Sometimes they made it too easy.

He entered the chamber and stood before the semi-circular table. There were several important-looking documents on said table, although the fact that two of the six empty coffee cups had been placed on top of them rather implied that they were not that important. That and the fact that at least one was quite clearly a sports page from a newspaper, whilst another had a half-filled crossword on it (no, Braton thought; six down, two-word expression of surprise, was not 'face it'). Three biscuit plates were also on the table, one between each pair of beings. Only the shortbread ones were left, though this is pretty much the same throughout the known universe. And probably in the unknown universe(s) as well. 

Braton sighed patiently and looked around the table. They all looked as guilty as sin. A good sign, he thought.

“What happened?” he asked politely. 

The 'this time' was left unsaid, but clearly heard by the Six, who looked even more guilty. 

“We decided to act on your report from last week”, Green said tetchily.

Braton nodded. “So how precisely did you 'act'?” he asked. 

“We tried to open up a portal across the Void to Galaxy 2”, Red said.

Braton fixed him with a Look.

“You tried something on Arcania, didn't you?” he said knowingly. 

“We thought that a magical world would give us the extra power to bridge the Void”, Black said. “And we were right.”

Braton looked hard at him. Black looked away.

“And?” he pressed.

“There were... complications”, Blue muttered.

“I did mention in my report that the system would almost certainly not take kindly to power projection”, he said crossly. “Agent 197's ill-judged attempt to keep a portal from closing should have shown that. And I strongly advised against any meddling, until further studies had been carried out.”

“You said 'almost certainly'”, Yellow said sulkily.

“Standing next to a star when it goes nova will 'almost certainly' kill you”, Braton replied crisply. 

“We weren't to know!” Blue growled. “And the portal did close eventually.”

“Of its own volition, I'm guessing”, Braton snarked. “Is the Arcania portal back to normal?”

“Yes”, Green admitted reluctantly. “But we can still detect a world in Galaxy 2.”

“Hmm”, Braton said. “Well, the damage is done now. Whatever you do, don't do anything else!”

“At least this will enable us to start scanning Galaxy 2 for possible threats”, White said. “That is why we summoned you. We wish you to make Arcania your new base, and monitor the portal system from there whilst processing the information we get.”

Braton feigned a quick irritation, and bowed his head.

“As you wish, my lords.”

+~+~+

Once Braton had gone, the Council turned as one to the other person in the room. He was short, scruffy and had the sort of face that seems designed to go unnoticed. He finished making notes on his small hand-held device, then stood and made his way to the spot recently vacated by the dark-haired clerk. He bowed once to the council and waited.

“Agent 18”, Blue said. “We believe you recently requested a field-posting.”

The short man raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, my lords”, he said quietly.

“We need someone to monitor events on Arcania”, Green said. 

The secretary looked surprised. Surely they had just....

“And to monitor the 'progress' of Agent 4473”, Red said. “You are a second-level clerk, precisely two hundred and sixteen times more powerful than he is. We do not trust him.”

The secretary nodded in agreement. He too did not like the dark-haired tech guy either. And actually taking a name outside of a posting – how pretentious was that?

“You will be stationed there and report back to us on a regular basis”, Yellow said. “We look forward to seeing how you do.”

The secretary baulked slightly. The way he had said that.... it was a common rumour that the Six were considering adding a seventh member, and who better than the man who already knew all their secrets? Provided he showed that he could be trusted in this posting, of course. 

He bowed to the Six, and left to finish his paperwork.

+~+~+

Braton mused through the bestiary, wondering what form to take when he arrived at his new post. Thorns were quite interesting, he thought, although the mechanics of operating a twelve-foot tall body when dealing with normal-sized gods and people might be a problem. Elves were a good standard, and there were several elven sub-races which might.... aha!

The pagari. A group of winged humanoids who, like the elves, tended to avoid humans, living in only two places on the planet. Winged humanoids, they could teleport short distances but needed their wings for longer flight. They could also sheathe their wings and appear human or at least elvish. Perfect!

He concentrated hard, and two huge wings sprouted from his back and all but filled the room. They were a strange mixture of black, white and every shade of grey, which he supposed was a fair reflection on his own nature. He pulled them behind him, and then sheathed them.

This was going to be fun!

+~+~+

Everyone knows Metatron. One of the (too many) sons of Arcania's god of war Trojan, he is a third-level god who ended up being secretary to his superiors because 1) he is good at it, 2) all the better jobs were already taken, and 3) he enjoys power, and his job entrusts him with lots of information which, as everyone knows, is pretty much the same thing. 

At this precise moment he is ferreting around in one of the many store cupboards that line three of his room's four walls. He is not actually looking for anything as such, but the recent starquake that shook Arcania last week led the other gods to spend way too long doing accurate impressions of headless chickens, of which he had rapidly tired. So he had retreated into his paperwork, claiming he needed to analyse whether or not the quake had damaged the storage areas. Unlikely, he knew – except whilst digging out the back of this particular cupboard, he finds a scroll which is clearly not of this world. It is written in strange hieroglyphs, like those of the old Oxanian Empire but simpler. It appears to be some sort of poetry, and fortunately Metatron's translation spell does work on it: 

When false night shall his home make here,  
When Fulk's eyrie shall disappear,  
When shall the king of iron fall,  
When love and strength shall conquer all.

When war and peace apart are done,  
When twice-born shall there be a son,  
When in the fiction, fact is key,  
The days of gods shall numbered be.

A true love lost, so newly-found,  
Then to another world he's bound,   
A safe harbor he there shall find,  
So to himself he can then bind.

Across the stars to where waves foam,  
The one who loves shall bring him home.  
But if he fails, the gods shall fall,  
The record-keeper shall rule all.

He translates it again, this time by hand.

Then he translates it a third time, using a dictionary just to be sure.

And then he slowly puts it down, and smiles to himself. 

Two days later, he casually mentions the scroll as the last item under Any Other Business at the gods' meeting, then hides behind his typewriter. As he had predicted, the news does not go down well. Some time later, after the swearing has finally stopped, Metatron's copy of his translation is framed and placed on the short wall between two pillars directly opposite Arkon's throne. 

Probably not because it is a short wall, Metatron may have decided to leave out the last two verses. Of course no-one knew that, and they very soon had other things to worry about, when the following day Braton Stone arrived in their set of dimensions. That's Braton whose name meant eclipse or, as it was referred to in some parts of Arcania, 'false night'.....

+~+~+

The gods did not have to wait long for the second line of the prophecy to be fulfilled, either. Two weeks later, Emperor Fulk III of Talonia decided to mount an invasion of Kyronia, which was still technically part of the empire but which had been cut off after the Skallagorian rebellion. Unfortunately for the emperor, Kyronia was also the native land of the pagari, so Braton sent the emperor a polite message requesting him not to invade. When the message was ignored, Braton coolly transported the entire invading army back to the subcontinent of Talonia, then sunk it, them, the emperor and the capital city (including the famous tower known as the Eyrie) into the North Sea. 

Apparently the new god on the block didn't do subtlety.

+~+~+

One hundred and fifty years earlier

Arkon stared glumly at the three-dimensional board in front of him. A wave of the hand, and he was able to zoom in to the chaos that was the scene on the dockside. A messenger wearing green was pushing his way through the crowds, who were too busy fighting amongst themselves for the few places available on the ships that were lined up ready to sail. The messenger leaped almost clear over the gang-plank and onto one of the ships, skittering to a halt in front of a portly yet regal figure.

“My liege!” he panted, “the Oaklanders! They've taken Dunlory!”

King Donald II went pale. The port in question lay just a few miles south of their current position in the capital, Blackerby, and if the damned Oakies had got their ships into that harbour, then they might be in a position to cut off his escape route south to the Barvak Republic. The king scowled at the news, and turned to go into his cabin without a word.

From high above, Arkon wasn't the only god to sigh heavily at the scene. Not that he had any time for the Irinians, as self-obsessed a bunch of ne'er-do-wells as had ever disgraced Arcania, but the fact that their king was now fleeing his own country in the face of an Oaklander invasion – an invasion he had brought about by his own mismanagement of the economy and a misguided attempt to steal some of the Teniel Islands from his neighbour – mean that the iron king had indeed fallen. 

The third line of the prophecy had come true. 

+~+~+

One hundred years earlier

Braton had a nagging feeling that something was about to go wrong, and that it would have to do with the fourth line of the prophecy, about love and strength conquering all. Then again, he was probably being overly cynical about it.

Yes, that spelling of cynical, again. How did you guess?

One of Braton's tasks was to keep tabs on the ever-increasing number of demigods and such on Arcania (honestly, could none of these gods keep it in their pants?). Thus it was that, on this particular fine summer's day, the god found himself by a small lake in Longley Wood, on the southern coast of Oakland, waiting for one such being to turn up. Andros Feher was the fourth-level demigod son of the god Halbuk, who in turn was the son of Kairos, god of critical time. At least like all demigods Andros had reached adulthood in just twenty-four hours, so Braton wouldn't have to wait to check him out. He was particularly interested in this one because Andros' father had married a pygar, and his son was therefore of the same race as Braton himself.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the realization that his target had arrived, and was currently divesting himself of his clothes behind a tree. Finally he stepped out into the open and.....

Whoa!

Braton swallowed hard and could not suppress a quiet moan, which made the demigod look around suspiciously for a moment, before sheathing his wings and lowering himself into the water. The god just stared. By the Fates, the pygar was beautiful! Seven foot of solid muscle, gorgeous almost impossibly white wings, and.... well, he was certainly packing! Braton was glad he was cloaked, because it meant no-one could see him drooling.

It looked like his carefully thought-out plan might be in need of a slight adjustment. A seven-foot long adjustment.....

+~+~+

It says something as to how well Arcania's Five Gods got on with each other that this meeting was the first since Braton's arrival a century before. Normally any such encounter would have begun with arguments and bickering just like any family get-together, but Kaos' announcement left his four sons shocked. 

“He's mated?” Arkon managed at last. “But that means.....”

“I know”, Kaos said grimly. “And he's created a castle for the two of them in some set of dimensions we don't have access to.”

“This couldn't be worse!” Mors grumbled.

“Actually, it could”, Kaos said grimly. “Do you want the bad news or the really bad news?”

The all looked at him glumly. 

“The bad news”, he told them, “is that Andros' name means 'strength'. Love and strength conquering all. Sound familiar?”

There were several exclamations of annoyance. Not fear. Definitely not fear.

“And the really bad news?” Kaos went on. “You know how he didn't want to be worshipped in the churches and all that?”

His sons looked at him in horror.

“Oh, that still stands”, the god said. “But his new mate has persuaded him to set up a religious order to 'do good deeds', and 'provide somewhere people can be safe'. No allowing prayers yet, but....”

“Who's going to bother to pray to us when they can talk to him?” Arkon said flatly. “It's a disaster!”

“You're very quiet about all this”, Kaos said, poking his youngest son with a strawberry wafer.

“Kai told me the other day that he thinks big changes are coming”, Chronos said slowly. “Not just for us, but for his grandson and his new mate as well. He said in about sixty years or so is when it will start. I wonder if....”

“You think those two won't have a kid for sixty years?” Mors asked incredulously. “Hell, most of us can't keep it in our pants for sixty seconds!”

“My son is the god of critical time, so he should know”, Chronos said defensively.

“Look”, Arkon said”, we're not done yet. I mean, there was all that crap about the gap between war and peace, wasn't there? We could just leave this guy alone and see what happens. I mean, he hasn't actually done anything to us yet, has he? He might be totally harmless.”

One might think that gods, with all their centuries of experience, would have learnt by now that avoiding a prophecy coming true is rather like a politician deciding their thoughts would be better kept to themselves. Though as it turned out, Arkon was right. Had he and his fellow gods left Braton and his new mate to their own devices, then the rather unfortunate sequence of events that involved the next line of the prophecy and a dustpan and brush might have been averted.

But then, with prophecies, there's always someone who can be relied on to screw things up.

+~+~+

Like the gods of Arcania, although with considerably less panic, the Six were far from pleased.

“You mated with one of them?” Green snapped. “How could you?”

“Do you wish me to explain the mechanics?” Braton quipped. “Well, first clothes get removed, and then....”

“You were told not to get too close to them!” Yellow said angrily. “This qualifies as way too close!”

“I can see what you mean”, Braton said thoughtfully, looking at each of the Six in turn. “Having offspring on other worlds must indeed be a bad thing. Anyone who did that would have questions to answer. Wouldn't they?”

There was a silence during which each of the Six seemed to find either the floor, walls or ceiling suddenly fascinating. 

“Well, we suppose that since they're used to you, then you'd better stay”, Black said reluctantly. “Do not think, though, that we have not seen the prophecy. I trust there will be no offspring from this union?”

“I guarantee that Andros and I will not be having children together”, Braton said firmly.

“Then you may return”, Blue said icily.

Braton vanished, and re-materialized back in his room with a sigh. Well, he had told his superiors the truth. He really had.

Sort of.

+~+~+

The Hall of the Gods, the morning after another party. None of the gods present were feeling their best. One of them, as events were about to transpire, would soon feel a whole lot worse.

Arkon was discussing a minor matter with Trojan when he became aware someone was standing right behind him. He turned round, and saw who it was. 

Oh fuck!

“Hullo, Braton”, he said with forced politeness. “What brings you here?”

Braton looked hard at him, then at Trojan. It was not a nice look.

“It seems one of your gods decided to meddle in something that didn't concern him”, he said quietly. “Stop right there, Troezen.”

The god of war's eldest son froze, a few steps short of a gap between two of the statues.

“What did he do?” Arkon asked nervously. 

Braton gave him a look that said very clearly 'did you know?' Arkon did not tremble, but it was close.

“Removed all the magic from Andros' weapons before a fight against a vampire”, the winged god said calmly. “Nearly killed the poor sap. You could reasonably say that I am not best pleased.”

It might have been better if he had been angry, Arkon thought edgily. This felt like the calm before the cataclysm. Braton looked at him again, then slowly turned his gaze towards the god of weapons. He stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head very slightly.

Two things happened simultaneously. Troezen's body turned instantly to dust, which hung briefly in the air before collapsing into a small heap on the floor, and the same fate befell his statue, a short distance round the room. Braton turned back to Arkon and smiled again.

“Firstly, his statue will not be replaced”, he said coldly. “Secondly, that was just a taster, and any future attacks on my mate will show what I can do when I get really annoyed. And thirdly.....”

He grinned.

“You might like to look where the gap is!” he quipped, and vanished.

Arkon stared after him in shock. He was only brought out of his daze when he heard Trojan's gasp from behind him.

“Look!” the god of war said insistently. “Fuck!”

Arkon looked at the remains of Troezen's statue, and a cold fear gripped his heart as he realized. It had stood between the statues of Trojan and his bother Tamar. Between war and peace......

They were so screwed.

+~+~+

Forty years earlier

This is Heaven. Or rather, this is Heaven having moved a bit.

Ever since the great starquake a hundred and sixty years ago, the gods and people of Arcania had discovered the joys and perils of the portal system, sometimes (for both) the hard way. The permanent portal had established itself in, of all places, the isolated subcontinent of Barridge, which at least limited the number of idiots who walked through it never to return. However, a second great quake last week had caused the thing to move – to slap bang in the middle of the Hall of the Gods. For some reason the gods were less than enthralled at the idea of having to work round a gateway to another world all day, and it was decided to move the Hall around the dimensions a bit, so the portal ended up in a back office. As the spells to do this would take some preparation, large red and white cones were placed around it, and yellow and black tape run between them, with a large note warning of the danger to anyone who approached.

Two observations may be made at this point. First, the cones and tape are pretty much standard practice across the galaxy. And second, also standard practice is the fact that there's always some idiot who ignores them. Which the gods found out the following day when they went to move the Hall, and checked on the portal only to find a garish purple cap lying in front if it. A quick roll call had established that, sure enough, one of their number was unaccounted for, a fourth-level demigod called Gadreel, a descendant of Arkon. The demigod had been saying to anyone who would listen that he was sure that the portal was quite safe. Ho hum.

The effects of the portal, even though it was in the actual Hall for barely twenty-four hours, were (to put it mildly) disturbing. Quite what Earth was going through at this exact moment in time, the gods would rather not imagine, for the result had been to turn the Hall into a strange building with flashing lights, a floor that changed colour, and strange revolving reflective globes hung from the ceiling. There was also a persistent noise – one hesitated to call it 'singing' - that suggested whoever was making it was either wearing trousers that were at least two sizes too tight, or was being horrendously tortured. Or both.

Because he obviously does not have enough to do as secretary to all the gods, it is the luckless Metatron who has ended up with the portal stuck in a corner of what is now his office, although it is now guarded (if that's the right word) by a triple defensive hexagram. Like most of the many inconveniences in his life, after a week he has grown so used to it that he barely notices it anymore.

“Is this bloody thing on?”

Perhaps not a phrase that would go down in history, but then no-one had ever managed to communicate from a world in another galaxy before. Metatron nearly fell off his chair before managing to stand up and walk nervously towards the portal.

“Who the hell is that?” he demanded, not getting too close.

“Is that you, Metatron?”

What? The? Fuck?

“It's me, Gadreel”, the voice said, crackling as the portal flickered. “I kind of... sort of fell through the portal.”

“I know”, Metatron said. “Where are you?”

“I think I'm in another galaxy”, came the reply. “Definitely a non-magical world. The locals call it Earth.”

“I thought anyone who left our world lost all their magical powers?”

“Provided I stay near the thing, I can draw power from it”, Gadreel explained. “Enough to keep me going, at any rate. And I think I've found a way to get back.”

Metatron chuckled.

“Sorry, mate”, he said. “We don't know much, but portals are strictly a one-way deal. You should have thought of that before....”

“If you use enough power, you can force a way through for me”, Gadreel interrupted.

“And where do you think I'm going to get my hands on that sort of power?” Metatron asked wryly.

The ensuing silence unnerved him somewhat.

“How about if I told you where?” Gadreel said.

“Go on”, Metatron said cautiously. 

“Remember the big starquake a hundred and sixty years ago that brought us the portal in Barridge?”

“Yes”, Metatron said cautiously. 

“Well, I think I've found what caused all that rumpus”, Gadreel said. “Back then, someone on this world who knew about magic in theory worked out a way to cast this spell that sucks the magical power out of every other being in the same star system, and into them. There's two parts to it, the instructions and the items actually used in the spell.”

“Go on”, Metatron urged.

“He must have come across our portal, because he tried to walk through with the seven items, thinking he could make himself Arcania's supreme god. Of course all that magic caused a reaction which, judging from the way his diaries come to a sudden end, meant so did he.”

Metatron had a horrible thought, but Gadreel beat him to it.

“It can't have been that idiot Stone”, he said. “For one thing, the guy's diaries show that he came from here, a non-magical world. And someone as powerful as him could have easily found the items by this time, in which case you and I wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“So you think that this spell actually works?” Metatron said doubtfully.

“I haven't finished”, Gadreel said patiently. “The seven items he took through are all magically protected, and each has a single letter associated with it. You have to get all seven items, place one at each corner of a heptagram, mark out the right runes and then utter the binding word, which is made by re-arranging the seven letters.”

“So how in all the eight hells do I find seven magical items that may be 'somewhere on this planet'?” Metatron demanded.

“I may be to blame for that”, Gadreel admitted. “The records say that, once someone crosses from Arcania to here, then someone will be born on this world who is important. The dates say the guy will be born here tomorrow. The weird thing – and I've checked the translation to death on this one – is that it says he then gets born again on Arcania over two decades later. As I seem to recall it says somewhere we both know, when twice born shall there be a son...”

“The sixth line of the prophecy”, Metatron muttered. “And then we only need for 'when in the fiction, fact is key' for 'the days of gods to numbered be'.”

“Sounds about right”, Gadreel said.

“Eh?”

“If you get all that power”, Gadreel pointed out, “the the days of the gods – plural – will indeed be numbered. There'll just be one god. You.”

Metatron ran that idea up his mental flagpole and decided he rather liked it. 

“I suppose the guy on this world will help me find the seven items”, he hazarded.

“Yes”, Gadreel said cautiously, “and there's even a tracking spell I can send you which will help you find your guy whenever he eventually decides to show up. But be careful.”

“Why? Will he be a demigod or something?”

Gadreel seemed to hesitate. 

“In order for the tracking spell to work”, he said, “you need to obtain a blood sample from the kid who's going to be born here tomorrow. The instructions seem to imply that your guy is protected in some way. I don't know if that extends to the guy being born here as well, but best not take any chances. You might get someone else to get the sample for you, just in case.”

Metatron grinned, as the ideal candidate sprang immediately to mind.

“Oh yes”, he smiled evilly. “I know just the gullible idiot. We'd better end this transmission now, friend.”

“Talk to you tomorrow, after the birth”, Gadreel said. “Here comes the trigger spell.”

A scroll came through the portal, glowing with magical power. Metatron took it and placed it carefully in his safe. then left the room, smiling. In his mailbox outside, he was even more pleased when he found an offer of a new chess game, albeit an anonymous one. He pocketed the letter and went on his way. 

Had he known his whole conversation had been monitored, his smile might have been slightly less wide.

+~+~+

This is the Magical Sphere, the domain of Vian, Kaos' eldest son. Stupid people might wonder how he got what was apparently the least glamorous of the four spheres. Stupid people who wondered this aloud are currently in his castle dungeon. Magic allows the castle owner to be particularly inventive as to what happens down there, so much that this story won't go into any further detail. Though if you think a combination of miserable job, dentist's chair, unwelcome relatives and sewage explosion, then you're 0.1% of the way there.

Make that 0.01%.

Magic 'works' on Arcania because of the magical aura, from which all spells are effectively 'pulled'. Maintaining this, and making sure something nasty doesn't push through from some wonkier set of dimensions, is a full-time task, and Vian relies on his family to share the load. His grandson Robus is in charge of a particularly important key point in the connection between the Magical and Earthly Spheres, namely the small kingdom of Casonia on the north-eastern coast of Irilia. This tiny federation is said to produce some of the most powerful warlocks on the planet, if only because anyone who can survive here for any length of time has to be good. 

Robus was blond, handsome, and about as imaginative as a broom-handle, so when his cousin Metatron had given him a set of instructions for retrieving a blood sample from an Earth hospital, he didn't question it, especially as Metatron had told him the order came from Arkon himself. (Robus, of course, believed him, which would turn out to be the second to last mistake he would ever make). Opening a portal, he located the hospital, and easily found the sample he had been asked to get. He teleported it to Metatron as requested, then closed the portal. 

Or rather, he tried to. Something was jamming it open. Frustrated, he extended his power and pulled hard.

That was the last mistake he ever made.....

+~+~+

He was on Earth, apparently in some sort of hospital. A small baby was dozing in a cot in front of him, unaware that a portal to another world was flickering right next to him. Robus reached out to touch the sleeping infant in the cot before him, and promptly got the shock of (what little remained of) his life when a hand reached round from behind him and grasped his wrist.

“Uh-uh-uh!”

He spun round, and found himself staring straight into the dark, unforgiving eyes of the most powerful being on his home-world. 

“Oh fuck!”

In terms of famous last worlds, not really a winner. But they were certainly his last. 

A pair of sooty footprints and a small octahedron hovering in mid-air was all that remained of one of the gods of Arcania. Braton pocketed the latter, wincing as he did so. Casting spells on a non-magical world was taxing, especially when you had to make an effort to contain the destruction of a divine being, whilst remaining invisible to the security cameras. 

He moved quickly to check that the baby was unharmed. It was small and, he thought, a bit scruffy. Why on Arcania did people think babies were 'cute'? A loud noise at one end, and no sense of responsibility at the other! He gazed down and read the name-tag around the tiny wrist.

“'Dmitri'” he whispered. “Well, you don't exactly look like the guy who's going to save my world, but I dare say you'd think me an odd-looking fish if you were awake, eh? Let's see what the future holds for you, kid.”

He concentrated hard. Future-seeking was, oddly enough, a lot easier on this world, since the absence of magic meant things were much clearer. Nothing was guaranteed of course, but this was the boy's most likely future path in life. The god smiled as the child became a man – still scruffy – and reached the point where... yes, he was definitely the one who....

Oh fuck!

The god's face fell. This guy might indeed save his world, but at the cost of his own sanity; the human mind was not designed to house two souls at one and the same time. No-one could cope with being two different people like that. 

Two different people. Hmm.....

“My son, yet not my son”, he whispered softly. “You can never know that the fate of my world will, one day rest in your hands. So be it. I cannot change your future, as I cannot directly influence people in their decisions. Anything you achieve by being you; that's yours by right.” He smiled knowingly. “But I can make sure you and those important to you are in the right places at the right time. Your life will be hard at first, but you will always have your very own meredi, or as you say it on this world, a guardian angel.”

He tentatively reached inside the baby, and winced as he felt the purity of the newborn soul. As gently as possible, he extracted the smallest amount that he could, storing it carefully at the back of his own magical aura. The baby writhed a little, but didn't cry.

“See you in twenty-seven years”, he whispered. “Oh, and watch out when you go to work in a big white house. The top guy there is a bit.... well, with your moniker, he might think you're female!”

He made two short stops on the way home. The first was to leave a large box of candy on a hillside in Iran. The second was to send what had been Robus hurtling towards Earth's local star.

+~+~+

The nurse on duty had the security cameras checked, but was unable to find who had drawn a tiny pair of wings around the name on the new arrival's wristband. And the cleaner got a talking-to for there being a small grey feather under the cot.

+~+~+

This is Hell.

All right, it's Kiea. Apparently it got the name from when Mors, god of death, opened a portal to some shop or other on Earth. He refused to tell anyone what happened (and shakes if anyone brings it up in conversation), but the name change happened immediately after it. Rumour is he's currently working on a whole new section designed on the same shop, to be reserved for those whose sufferings he really wants to prolong.

When people die on Arcania, they go to the transfer and scrutinizing area - officially titled The Transfer and Scrutinizing Area; Mors saves his imagination for other things - where they pass through something that looks like an Earth airport security scanner (lots of waiting, awkward questions and overzealous TSA officials who are just longing to do that rectal examination). Here they are effectively 'weighed' for their actions on the planet, good against bad. The truly good go off to Elysium, where they can spend as long as they like with whom they like, and get reincarnated as a human at a time of their choosing (though they have to wait at least seven years). Or they can just stay there for good. Those who are more good than bad have to spend time on one of the Eight Demonic Planes (collectively called Purgatory), after which they get reincarnated as humans, whilst those who were more bad than good fare similarly, but will get reincarnated as lower life forms (e.g. animals, plants, amoebas, lawyers, etc.). The irredeemably evil get their souls shredded and scattered to the more distant dimensions. Mors enjoys that bit.

In his defence, it should be said at this point that Mors is not actually evil, just very, very good at his job. He has to be; there are few people who actually pray to him, except usually just before they are about to enter his world. Unlike his brothers he has no churches or temples, and he survives because without him, Arcania would fill up pretty quickly. That doesn't mean to say he doesn't sometimes mourn for the pre-Braton days, when major wars led to booming business, or for the lack of any decent homicidal or maniacal rulers, who now tend to have unfortunate and fatal accidents (Mors is certain Braton was behind that thing with the Chenzu Emperor and the herd of buffalo) before they really get going. But the god of death would not do anything to bring those days back. Not that he is scared of Braton Stone; he is just naturally considerate towards humanity. 

Do not snigger at the god of death, please.

So when he notices what one of his copious offspring is up to, he is naturally wary (no, not afraid), particularly as it possibly involves the aforementioned Braton Stone. If he lets things just happen, there is the very real danger that Braton will find out and blame him in some way. That's 'blame' as in 'end horribly'. And he doesn't need reminding, especially by his dick brothers, that the most powerful god on Arcania doesn't actually have an area of responsibility yet, and there is a persistent rumour (Mors will kill the person who started it if he ever finds them) that the feather-brain might quite like to be god of death. This could provide him with just the excuse he needs. 

He checks his records, and decides that he knows just the person to keep tabs on the potential troublemaker. Half an hour later, the deputy manager at the TSA, an obscure fifth-level demon called Crowley, is leaving his room with a whole new set of instructions to monitor their immediate superior.

+~+~+

And finally, this is Trumpton, the domain of Chronos, god of time. Anyone thinking about making fun of his choice of name should bear in mind this particular god could age you a millennium in less than a second, if the mood took him. There are more clocks in his castle than any sane person has a right to possess, although oddly none of them make any noise. Except one, the Main Clock, which marks the passing of time itself. It has the sort of loud annoying tick you always find in a clock only when you get it home and put the batteries in. 

The cuckoo is incidental, by the way. 

As the great-grandfather of the mate of the most powerful being on the planet, Chronos is in an even more difficult position than his brothers, and that's saying something. Not that he could do anything to stop Braton Stone, but his sympathies are distinctly more divided than those of his elder brothers (and anyone who has elder brothers knows just what being the youngest is like). 

Chronos will, of course, do nothing to help his great-grandson's mate. But if Kairos, Andros' grandfather, passes on any information, or Halbuk, the pygar's father, helps things along in any way, then Chronos may just happen to be looking the other way at the time.

That's 'may' spelled 'W-I-L-L'.


	4. Getting Born Is Hard To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game begins.

This is Fraternity Castle. On the outside it looks pretty much like the domains of the Five Ancient Gods, although bearing in mind who owns it, it's not surprising that this appearance is deceptive. At least the red stuff on the walls is, thankfully, a rare type of moss. It looks very much your standard divine stronghold, seemingly identical to other divine dwellings (though in Mors' case, the red stuff on the walls of his place is.... well, not moss). Inside, however, this one is very different. The magic used to defend the castle extends here to create a form of central heating, there is carpet rather than bare stone floors, and the whole thing is designed for comfort rather than show. There is a large number of bedrooms, but only one of them is used, albeit frequently, and lying on that bed at this particular moment is one Braton Stone, probably the most powerful being on the planet.

Those things sticking out from under the bed may or may not be fluffy bunny slippers, but if they are, they are most definitely his husband's. He just left them on the wrong side of the bed this morning. 

Braton sighed, and forced himself to get up. He pulled on some clothes, and made his way slowly and almost reluctantly to his study (yes, he could have everything in the one room, but everyone knows important gods live in medieval-style castles, so he plays along). Once there, he locked the door and took a piece of chalk out of his desk. He briefly flexed his senses, but his husband wasn't back yet. Even if he had have been, Andros knew better than to come into the study when it was locked.

Andros. That was the one thing that scared him. Until now, it had only been the two of them, and all Braton's love had been solely for his husband. No more. Truly no man could serve two masters, or love two different people. 

He drew a triangle on the floor, then pulled out a line from each of the corners to a point above the centre, creating a tetrahedron whose faint edges glowed a strange shade of blue. He replaced the chalk in the draw, then drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and screwed it up before inserting it into his mouth and biting down hard on it. Then he braced himself, and walked back over to the shape before placing his hand tentatively inside it. Despite the handkerchief, he could not but help let out a cry of pain as the tiny fragment of a human soul made its way through his body and along his outstretched fingers. 

[](http://fav.me/d81zkmg)   


Twenty-one years, he thought, his eyes watering as the pain slowly receded. Fourteen just to gather enough power, then seven to bring you to a form where you can be born, hopefully without being detected by your enemies. 

An ironic smile creased his features. He had promised the Six that he and Andros would never have a son together. But he hadn't promised never to have a son by himself.

“Castiel”, he whispered, as he cast the first spell and felt the tiny soul fragment finally (and mercifully) break free and move into the tetrahedron. “'You who shall be loved'. My son, your life starts now.”

+~+~+

Thirty-four years earlier 

Molly Parkes sighed as she felt her courage fail her yet again. Damn it, today was the last day of school, and that envelope was still burning a hole in her pocket.

“You could just do it, you know”, a voice said from behind her.

She did not jump (much), and spun round to see a dark-haired man standing behind her, a knowing look on his plain features. She looked at him curiously.

“Steve Barton, stand-in TA”, he explained. “Ms. Bowers has the flu.”

“Oh”, she said. “Um, do what?”

“You've been staring at that woman and her kid for a while now”, he said. “You look like you're trying to get up the courage to go over to talk to her.”

She did not even know the guy, but she felt instinctively that she could trust him.

“It's just.... her kid is Sally's best friend, and I know they're struggling, especially at this time of year.” She rubbed her hand on her forehead. “And Jack and I are so well off. I just thought.....”

“It is Christmas”, he smiled. “They do say no good deed goes unrewarded, you know.”

She nodded at him, braced herself, and walked the few steps across the room to hand the surprised mother the envelope. Too embarrassed to stay to see her reaction to the hundred-dollar bill inside it, she grabbed her daughter and hurried away. 

Mr. Barton continued tidying the classroom, keeping a covert eye on the mother opening the envelope, and subtly edging an adult chair near her just as she opened it. It proved a wise move, for she sank into it in shock at finding the money, whilst her child tried to push into her, obviously concerned as to why his mother was suddenly crying. The TA went over to them both. 

“Dmitri”, he said quietly, handing over a large carrier bag, “would you do me the favour of taking away the last of the Christmas candy? Mrs. Bessemer and I will only eat it if it's left in the classroom.”

The boy gave him a gummy smile, nodded, took the bag and turned back to his mother. The man smiled at him.

Jack Parkes never found out how the underwear he was certain he had ordered for his wife changed into a set of her favourite novels. But as she was so overjoyed at receiving them, he didn't really worry about it. 

+~+~+

Twenty-six years earlier 

It was generally recognized that, in the complicated world of gods, demigods and people who could claim to be one sixty-fourth divine, it was better to be safe than sorry, if only because being sorry usually equated with being a pile of ash between a pair of smoking boots. Attacking anyone who was within a few generations of a divine ancestor was probably one of the dumbest things you could do, just below claiming to be descended from a god when you weren't. 

Larne Novak was not descended from a god, or at least, not directly. But his great-grandfather Martin Feher had been the elder brother of Andros, now husband to probably the most powerful being on the planet, so it could be said that he was in an enviable position. Or rather, that could have been said until today, when the young omega's world was turned upside down as he went through his bedroom door and found himself in a large study, with bookshelves on all four walls. And sat in one of the two chairs was his great-great-uncle. 

Oh.

“Um, hullo Braton”, he ventured.

“Hullo, Larne. Sorry to bring you here like this, but I wanted to talk to you without being interrupted.”

“What can I do for you?” the silver-winged pygar asked politely.

“I was hoping you could give birth to my son.”

Larne's mouth fell open.

“You..... what?” he gasped at last.

“I am about to create a new life, Larne, by splitting part of myself away. I need a surrogate to carry the child for the normal pregnancy, seven years from now.”

“But.... I'm engaged!”

Braton looked hard at him. “Oddly enough, I knew that. This child... he will be important, Larne. I cannot tell you just how important. And I chose you not only because you are, in effect, family, but because you are good and true.”

“Roc will go mad!” Larne said, panicking. “He'll know the kid isn't his.”

“I know that I have no right to ask such a favour. And if you say no, I promise I'll just forget I asked. But I would deem it an honour if you would accept..”

The pygar thought about it. He really did not see his intended taking this at all well. But the god in front of him certainly had the power to make him do this anyway - something he knew most other gods would have done, in the same position - yet he had asked. And everyone knew Braton's word could be trusted.

“Will I have other kids first?” he asked.

“Oh yes”, Braton said firmly. “And my protection, of course.”

Larne took a deep breath. 

“I'll agree”, he said slowly. “But I want you to protect both me and my family.”

“You and your children. But if Roc ever harms you or any of them, especially my – our - son, I reserve the right to swing for him!”

“Braton!”

The god sighed.

“I'll tell him off a bit?”

Larne bit back a smile. An all-powerful god looking beseechingly at him was wrong on so many levels.

“Fair enough”, he said. “I'll do it.”

Braton smiled in relief.

“I'm grateful, Larne”, he said. “Thank you.”

+~+~+

He made sure the pygar was safely gone before crossing to the centre of the room, uncovering the glowing tetrahedron of magic that was his future son. As soon as it was exposed, it pulsed with renewed energy.

His son. His blood. Castiel.

This was it. The point of no return. Until now he could have simply folded the magic back into his already weakened self, but once he had created a definite future form for his son, there was no going back. The magic would be lost to the god forever; Braton could recharge to his normal level, but only after his son's death. 

That future form. He glanced up at the framed picture on the sideboard. He had been back to Earth the day before to check up on the boy – no, teenager now, he was fourteen – there, and had been struck by how much he resembled the picture. Just an ordinary guy in appearance, although Braton had been strongly tempted to intervene over a worrying future 'taste' in clothes. No item of apparel should have more that ten colours in it.

He concentrated hard. Finally he smiled to himself, and opened his eyes to see the finished project. 

Some little time later, he remembered that even gods occasionally needed to breathe. 

It was the eyes that did it. One of the few things beyond any deity, even Braton, was that they were unable to prevent their true nature from showing through their eyes. The untidy dark hair, the aquiline nose, the small face – everything made this boy unnoticeable except those incredible blue eyes, through which his divinity positively screamed. By the Fates, he was beautiful! 

The twice-born son, Braton thought to himself, tears in his eyes. “I shall always love you, and it hurts me more than I can say that whilst you are alive, you will never truly know how much. But my purpose is to protect you, and to guide you to the man whose love could mean the world to you. To us all. May the Fates prove me wrong and him worthy.

The image began to both shrink and become brighter, until it was a minuscule shard of impossibly bright magic. Braton shuddered with the effort, but reached out his arm. The shard seemed to hesitate for a moment, then floated into his hand, melting down into the skin. The god screwed his eyes in pain as he felt his son's magical field spark against his, before he settled in the place he had built for him, guarded by the strongest magic he had.

My son, he thought. I would give my life for you. I may well have to. And at the end of it all, I shall have to kill you.

He did not cry. But it was a close-run thing.

+~+~+

Twenty-five years earlier

He was not going to cry. He was fifteen years old, and he was not going to cry. 

On the outside, at least. 

She was sat two rows further down the bus, and the minute he had sat down, he could see the hickeys on her neck. Three freakin' days! That's all they had been apart since that party, and she'd already found someone else.

Slut, he thought bitterly.

The bus was crowded, and he wasn't surprised when someone squashed in next to him. What did surprise him was that the guy seemed in his early twenties, and seemed vaguely familiar from somewhere. He nodded at the boy.

“Steve Barton”, he said. “I'm a TA; I was brought along as an extra adult.”

“Dmitri”, the boy said, still staring at the hickeys.

It was only a ten-minute journey, and they were nearing the end when the man chuckled. The boy looked across at him.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.

“I was at the party, too”, the man whispered. “And I really don't know why you're acting like the betrayed boyfriend, especially when you haven't even told her you want a relationship....”

“Shut up!” the boy hissed, flushing bright red before glaring at the man. “I just thought....”

“Besides, you were the one who put them there.”

The boy stared at him, confused.

“What?” he asked.

The man chuckled again.

“Man, you were all over her at that party!” he remembered, smiling. “We were thinking we would have to crow-bar the two of you apart at one point, or at least turn a hose on the pair of you!”

Somehow the boy managed to go even redder.

“Fuck! I don't remember....”

“And I don't think you're in a position to be judging”, the man quipped, standing up. “Ah, I see we're here.”

“What do you mean, 'judging'?” the boy demanded.

The man quirked an eyebrow at him, and leaned back down.

“You should have worn a turtle-neck today”, he whispered. “I can see the top of one of the hickeys she gave you! Slut!”

He sniggered as he ambled off the bus. The boy stared after him in shock, and felt around his neck. Damn, it was there!

Then he looked up. The girl had turned round, and was staring knowingly at him.

Then she smiled.

+~+~+

Twenty-three years earlier 

Father?

Braton blinked in surprise, and looked up from his book. That should not have been possible, communicating with someone before they had even been born. But then, there wasn't exactly a rulebook for what he was attempting.

What is it, Cas? 

You have not marked him.

Who?

My soul mate. Take me to him. Please, you must protect him.

Braton frowned. How on Arcania did his son know so much?

That would not be advisable.

Please. I beg you!

He was being got at by someone who didn't even exist yet. Still, it wouldn't hurt to check up on his (possible) future son-in-law. 

Fine, we'll play it your way. I'll provide the transport, you read the maps.

I do not understand that reference.

Just... Cas!

Somewhere in the distant reaches of Braton's mind, he felt a pang of sympathy for parents everywhere. Kids!

+~+~+

Winchester, a fair-sized city in southern Oakland. They were in the Smith family nursery, where an alpha baby who could only have been a few months old was sleeping in his cot. The name board on the wall read 'Dean'. Braton managed a wry smile.

Dean, he thought sadly. The man I must protect. The man who will one day break my son's heart. 

Father?

Yes, Cas?

Please protect him.

Braton sighed heavily.

I cannot, son.

Why not?

Because at some time in the future, it will come down to a choice between your life and his. And I cannot save both of you.

But he will love me!

Not enough, Cas. At least, not at first.

Will we.....?

I cannot say. I really wish I could but... I cannot.

At least promise me you will watch over him, father.

Braton sent a pulse of reassurance towards his son, and smiled as it echoed back to him.

For you, son, always. Always and forever.

He braced himself, and teleported both himself and his son back to his study.

I will indeed watch over you, Dean, he thought bitterly. And should you indeed prove yourself unworthy, you will pay for it!

+~+~+

Twenty-two years earlier

Larne smiled proudly as he looked at his two new-born sons. Twins, a rare occurrence in a world where childbirth involved the omega splitting his magical aura into not two but three pieces. Larne was lucky to have survived. 

Except he fully suspected it was less luck, and more the figure standing on the other side of the cots. Braton smiled back at him, then looked down at the boys. Two alphas, fraternal twins. The elder, Michael, had brown hair and hazel-brown eyes, whilst the younger, Lucifer, had light fair hair and eyes that were a strange lilac colour. Both had their papa’s silver wings.

“Thank you for coming, Braton.”

“No problem. The gods have already been and checked up on them, and found nothing.”

“So how have you been?” Larne asked.

“Better”, Braton smiled. “The pains have eased, now he's taken a definite future shape. Does Roc know I'm here?”

“No”, Larne admitted, blushing. “He's down at the church, giving thanks to Trojan.”

“As if that meathead would know one end of a baby from the other!” Braton snorted. “He's a bang 'em and leave 'em kind of god.”

“Will you be around... next time?” Larne ventured.

Braton took him by the shoulders, and looked into his eyes.

“For you, Larne”, he said firmly, “I shall be around every time. That I promise.”

+~+~+

Twenty-one years earlier

The barracks at Esire, on the south coast of Oxania. Braton sighed. Why did humans have to make things so complicated?

The man in front of him was around thirty years old, with black hair that had rather oddly greyed slightly all over, giving a leaden effect. He wore a military uniform, and was standing by a roaring fire. Shaking.

“You’re an idiot!” Braton said softly.

The man looked up and saw him for the first time. The next instant he had a dagger in his hand. The instant after that, he dropped it with a surprised yelp of pain.

“I don’t really appreciate having a weapon drawn on me”, Braton snapped. “Especially not when I’ve done so much for you already, Throm Barclay.”

“Who are you?” the man gasped.

The god stepped into the firelight. He could see the man paling as he recognized him.

“You're Braton Stone! What do you want with me?”

Braton leaned in closer. He was quietly impressed that the warrior stood his ground.

“Right now I want to give you a bloody good slap!” he bit out.

“What?”

Braton glared at him.

“I arranged for you to get the Transoxania post, promotion from this dump. I sent the most beautiful young elf into your life, your soul mate no less. And now he’s sitting in the medical centre sobbing his heart out, because he kissed the man of his dreams, who then promptly turned and ran!”

“Val can’t love me! I’m nearly twice his age!”

“Funnily enough his heart doesn’t know that. Or care, for that matter.”

“But he wants kids. Lots of them. And I'm a gamma.”

Braton smiled knowingly, then gestured to the table next to where Throm was sitting. The warrior looked down, and saw a blue phial on the table, with a label tied round the top. Even in the firelight, it read clearly ‘Sex Change Potion – One Use’. 

“That’s impossible!” the warrior ground out. 

“Like all gods, I'm allowed to change the gender of one person per century”, Braton said. “I thought you were worth choosing. I would really appreciate it if you didn't prove me wrong.”

The warrior looked at him in astonishment, and Braton felt just a little sorry for him. He clearly wanted to believe, but it was all a bit much for him. The god took him gently by the hands.

“Good things do happen, Throm. Drink this, and go to the man you love, and who loves you. You’ll be very happy together.”

The warrior looked at him warily.

“And you’re doing this because…..”

“I have a plan. It involves you and Valerian. I can’t tell you any more for now, but I want you to be happy together. I may see you again, but not for a while. Goodbye, and good luck.”

He disappeared, but watched as the colonel quickly downed the phial, then raced out of the room. Less than five minutes later he was back, bearing a beautiful white-haired elf in his arms. Braton disappeared quickly.

“The Fates be praised for the kid's broken leg!”, he muttered as he left. “If only it could be so easy next time!”

+~+~+

Twenty years earlier

The baby's hair was almost pure black, which Braton knew was rare, and his wings were golden like his father's. The name on the cot read 'Raphael'. The god looked down on the beta in disappointment.

Too selfish. This one could cause trouble. 

There was a shift from inside of him.

Father....?

He sighed.

What is it, Cas?

Once I am born, I will not be able to remember you, will I?

No. I am sorry for that. But you cannot live your life trying to be me.

I am your son. Do you not love me?

Braton winced.

More than life itself, Cas. You are me. I would die to protect you.

I may well have to, he added silently.

I love you, dad.

Braton sniffed. He was obviously getting a cold.

Thank you, Cas. That means so much to me.

+~+~+

Nineteen years earlier

A reddish blond baby, and again the wings were golden like his father's. Small, though, and definitely an omega; Roc wouldn't like that. The name at the top, scribbled in chalk rather than properly painted, read ‘Gabriel’. Braton looked down at the baby and sighed.

Idiot. Utter, complete, first-class idiot. But a necessary one.

Braton hesitated, then slipped silently out and across to the room opposite, where Larne and Roc were sleeping. He hesitated for a moment, then whispered a few words under his breath. 

Nothing happened.

Cas, you know how things are, he thought. Please!

Goodbye, father. And.... thank you.

Larne twitched briefly in his sleep as something crackled within him. Braton suddenly felt decidedly empty. It was a depressing feeling. But he'd done the first part of his job as best he could. Now the stakes were raised, and he was no longer in full control. 

For the first time in his life, Braton was afraid.

He swallowed hard, and blinked away. He had other work to do.

+~+~+

Dean was upset. His papa had broken the news earlier that day, and the boy had sensed immediately that something was very wrong. It should have been a joyous occasion, but both his parents had looked sad. Why? 

He sat on his favourite bench in the town park and thought for a while, idly fingering the amulet in his pocket. A weird thing he had found in his room one day, but it looked cool. For some reason, he'd never shown it to either of his parents. 

“You could have just asked, Dean.”

A cowled man was sat next to him. Dean did not let out a loud squeal; only omegas did that sort of thing. He turned to look at him, and saw a strange four-triangled sign on his breast. The same symbol on the amulet that he was still fingering.

“You're worried about your parents, aren’t you?” the man said.

Dean sighed.

“Yeah”, he admitted. “Papa told me this morning he’s pregnant. But they both looked so sad about it. There’s something they’re not telling me.”

“There are many things parents keep from their children”, the man said softly. “Usually because they’re trying to protect them.”

“Do you know what it is?” Dean asked.

“Yes”, the man said.

“Tell me!”

The monk stared into the distance as if the answer lay out there somewhere.

“Your papa has made a choice, Dean”, he said gently. “His aura never fully recovered after you, and he knows he may not survive this birth. But he so wants to give you the brother you've always asked for. Now his aura is three-quarters recharged, he can do that.”

“I can't lose him! I never wanted a brother that much!”

“You must respect his decision, Dean. As must we all. He knows the risks, yet he has decided to take them.”

“It’s so unfair!”

“Life sometimes is. But you can talk to me any time you need to.”

“I don’t even know your name!”

“It is better that you do not. I will tell you when the time is right. I promise.”

“Why are you here? Why are you doing this?”

The man stood up.

“You have a destiny, Dean. You are important. I can help you realize that destiny, but I can only do so much. I know you hate doing it, but you have to want me to help.”

“I do want it!”

“Then I shall be there for you. Go back home, now; your parents are worried about you. Be strong for them, Dean. The road ahead is hard, but you are a remarkable young man. You will pull through.”

He walked slowly away, his head bowed. Dean pulled himself together and started for home.

+~+~+

The principal read through the report again, but it still didn't make any sense. He looked up at the author, who was in the room with him, and who looked equally nonplussed.

“That's what they said, Hiram”, he said. “They were attacked and beaten by a... 'winged demon' behind the library around nine last night.”

Hiram P. Bellwether II snorted in disbelief.

“Well, where to start?” he said. “First, the day Tucker and his cronies are anywhere near the library will be a cold day in hell. What precisely were they doing behind the place in the pitch dark?”

His deputy grinned.

“Fortunately they were stupid enough to go discussing it directly outside the library's coffee-room, where the window was open”, he said. “One of the staff overheard them. Apparently they were waiting to jump some nerd who had made one of them look bad in class.”

“Like that takes a lot of doing!” the principal grunted. “Did they get a name?”

“Khrushnic, the woman thinks. So anyway, according to all four of them this thing with black wings and black eyes suddenly appears from out of nowhere in the alleyway, and attacks them.”

The principal looked again at the report.

“So in other words, they were waiting to jump a nerd, and instead got a creature from hell!” he observed. “Well Mike, I don't know what it was that they brought down on themselves, but they deserved it! Are they all still in hospital?”

“The other three got released this morning, but Tucker has to stay in for the rest of the week”, hie deputy said. “There was one odd thing, though....”

“What?” the principal asked.

“The police checked the area afterwards”, the deputy said slowly, “and they found a large grey feather on the ground. But when they went to take it out of the evidence locker for further examination, it had gone....”


	5. Sweet Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fatherhood has its own issues when you're a god.

Eighteen years earlier

So this was it. Fatherhood. 

Braton stared down at the small, pale omega baby, and felt a curious tug in his heart. It had scruffy dark brown, almost black hair, and stunningly blue eyes. If it hadn't been for the fledgling pair of night-black wings, he could almost have been back in that Earth hospital over twenty years ago. 

His son. His blood. Castiel.

He was so not crying.

He gently lifted his son into his arms, his aura crackling angrily around him. The name-board above the cot had been removed, which meant Roc had refused to acknowledge the child. The god's face darkened.

“How dare he!” he hissed. “I will end him!”

He swallowed hard, then continued, his voice steadier. 

“Bear my mark, for thou art mine,  
Right or wrong, on oath divine.  
Ask me thrice, I shall obey,  
Through the night and into day,  
On my soul, this oath I bear,   
Now by the Fates, I truly swear!”

As he spoke, he gently touched his son on the forehead. The Fraternity trigram appeared briefly where he had made contact, then vanished. 

Castiel was looking straight at him out of cerulean eyes. Even though Braton knew his son could have no memories of the past five years, there was something in that look, something.... knowing. His breath caught for a moment, then he kissed his son on the forehead and lowered him gently back into the cot. 

Don't look at me like that, son. I am Braton Eilurian Stone. I don't do feelings.

+~+~+

Their new son's black wings had occasioned the first serious argument between Roc and his mate, who had stormed up to their room and pointedly locked the door. The alpha was furious! Pagari wing colour was strictly hereditary, so those freaky black wings meant that he was not the boy's father. He hadn't thought Larne would ever be the one to sleep around, but apparently he had been wrong.

There was a knock at the door. He sighed exasperatedly, and went to open it. Outside was a brown-haired, tan-winged pygar, who was looking at him curiously.

“Roc Speight?” he asked.

The taller pygar was suspicious.

“Yeah?” he grunted. “Who wants to know?”

The visitor raised a finger to his lips as if in thought. Roc was about to slam the door on him when he suddenly felt as if every muscle in his body was seizing up. He crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. 

“Luri Novak”, the stranger said quietly. “My brother is currently upstairs crying his eyes out. Before I turn you into something even slimier and more repulsive that you already are, would you like to offer an explanation as to why that might be?”

Roc felt the pressure on his insides ease slightly, and at least he could breathe.

“The kid”, he managed. “Not mine!”

The man huffed a laugh.

“Of course he's not yours, moron!” he snapped. “That's why I'm here. I'll be moving into the cottage up by the lake, just to keep an eye on you.”

Roc stared at him in horror. 

“Oh, and I've a message from his real father”, the man continued. He leaned forward and Roc's insides went all the way back up to agonizingly painful in record time. “The boy's name is Castiel. You'd better hope you raise him the same as your others. Because if you don't, or if you breathe a single word about what's happened here today, your life is mine!”

+~+~+

Metatron stared at the report in front of him. His priests were good; the kid was barely a week old, and the god already knew everything there was to know about him. And the spell surrounding the blood vial had activated as planned (even if that idiot Robus had got himself killed somehow, but sacrifices, etc.), which meant he could track the boy wherever he went. 

Castiel Novak, fifth son of Roc Speight and Larne Novak. Neither parent seemed to have much in the way of interest about them; The father's ancestors all worked in building or other manual labour, whilst the papa's had a slightly more interesting background in that he was descended from Andros Feher's brother, which suggested a vexatious connection to that tiresome Braton Stone. Though if this whole thing worked out as planned, Metatron would end up powerful enough to deal with even that menace.

The god smiled. Everything was going exactly to plan. He flicked a wrist at the chess cube in the corner, and one of his white knights edged forwards and upwards. Just like life, slowly and carefully to his eventual victory.

+~+~+

Seventeen and a half years earlier

The man who, until a few hours ago, had been Mark Winchester stared unhappily at his shattered family. Through the kitchen window he could see his (former) husband John, drinking already. Not a good sign. His elder son Dean was sitting on the garden bench, holding his new-born baby brother and sobbing quietly. Mark presumed that despite being dead he must still have a heart, because he could feel a terrible ache deep within.

Someone was standing behind him. He guessed at once who it was, and turned to face…

Oh. Not who he was expecting.

Hullo, Mark.

He stared in shock. 

Not to be rude, but I was kinda expecting.....

Mors, or one of his sons? I had a few things I needed to say to you first. Don't worry, they haven't noticed your absence. 

I don’t understand.

Braton gestured to where Dean was holding his brother.

I am watching over Dean. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to save you. You always meant so much to him.

At least Sam survived. Are you protecting him too?

No. I can only watch Dean, although I can give Sam some protection if Dean asks. Their lives won’t be easy, but I promise you I shall do what I can for them.

Thank you.

Mark turned to look back at his two sons, and sighed.

I wish….

What?

Nothing. It’s too late now.

Perhaps not.

Braton placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and suddenly the two were inside the house, standing in the small study. Mark’s writing-desk was in front of them, and on it was a single sheet of paper and two pencils. Braton took him gently by the hands.

I could not save you, but I can at least grant you this. The chance to leave a final message for your loved ones. Go, Mark. Say your goodbyes properly. 

Thank you.

Braton left him and walked over to the window, looking down into the garden below. He sighed to himself.

Though you will probably hurt me more than any man on this planet, I must still watch over you, Dean Winchester. I really wish you were more worthy, but them's the breaks. Your papa was a good man, and I only wish his sons were truly worthy of him. If all goes well, you will meet him again one day. 

If all goes well….

+~+~+

Sixteen years earlier

The young man slumped down into the bar, whilst his companion crowed in delight.

“Told you you should have backed the Broncos”, the taller man said smugly. “And as the winner, I claim my forfeit!”

The shorter man groaned. This could not be good. His companion fished out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. He read it, then looked up confusedly. 

“I don't get it.”

“It's a new show they're filming here”, his companion explained. “My brother is on the crew, and he's managed to get you an audition.”

His friend paled.

“You want me to appear on camera? Like, be on TV?”

The other man laughed.

“I've told you time and again, mi amigo, you've got the talent”, he said with a grin. “And you did promise to do anything I asked if the Packers got beat. It's only a small part you'll be reading for, but everyone has to begin somewhere. The road to fame and fortune starts here!”

“You've been spending too long on that World Wide Web thing”, the shorter man sighed. “All right, I'll do it. But I bet I won't get the part.”

“Oh, you underestimate yourself, young padawan”, his companion laughed. “I can see it now, the official Misha Collins Fan Website....”

“I need another drink!”

+~+~+

Fifteen years earlier

Castiel was playing in his room when Gabriel burst in, and immediately threw himself under their bed. The younger pygar sighed.

“Have you been playing tricks on Rafe again?” he asked.

Gabriel giggled, which his brother correctly interpreted as an affirmative. After a few minutes, the blond eventually pulled himself out.

“Did you see Uncle Luri earlier?” he asked. “I was over Ben's place.”

Castiel paused.

“Yes”, he said slowly.

“What's wrong?” Gabriel asked at once.

“You'll think it silly.”

“I won't! Promise!”

Castiel hesitated again.

“It's just.... I feel I've seen him somewhere before....”

+~+~+

Twelve years earlier

Roc was not happy. He had returned home to find his brother-in-law was visiting again. Of course you didn't ever cross a warlock – at least not if you wanted to wake up the same shape you went to bed as – but there was something about the guy that unnerved him. He nodded curtly to the two of them, and went upstairs. 

Passing by his younger sons' room, he saw that the door was open, presumably to try to alleviate the summer heat. He paused briefly, then stuck his head round it. Predictably Gabriel's bed was empty – heaven only knows what the scamp was off and up to – whilst Castiel lay asleep in his bed, his dark curly hair as untidy as ever, and his huge wings almost totally enfolding him. Roc risked a quick glare at him before making his way to his own bedroom, and opened the door.

Then he froze.

On the wall above his and Larne's bed, there hung a large framed painting of a country landscape. Except it now lay leaned up against the wall, and had been replaced by a much smaller framed card with three words on it:

'Still watching you.'

Roc definitely did not tremble. It was just cold. For summer.

+~+~+

“It's not working!” Metatron glared through the portal, hoping his friend could somehow detect his annoyance.

“What's the problem?” came Gadreel's patient voice.

“It's too vague”, Metatron groused. “I know the first item is somewhere in the town of Yellowbury, because there was a slight increase in the monitoring spell when he went there last week, but it was too little to detect exactly where. And now the brat isn't due to go there for another year!”

There was silence from the portal, and Metatron wondered briefly if the other guy had gone away before he suddenly spoke.

“Perhaps you need to encourage things along a bit?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, remember I said that your guy is protected in some way?” Gadreel said thoughtfully. “And after what happened to poor Robus... well.”

“What are you suggesting?” Metatron asked cautiously.

“Let's assume something or someone is protecting him”, Gadreel reasoned. “Suppose you find a person who can attack or threaten the brat in some way. I remember the pagari; their magical fields flare when threatened. That could be enough to find the item.”

“A good theory”. Metatron agreed. “But I'll need to test it first.”

+~+~+

Braton was reading quietly in the castle study when it happened, a sudden feeling told him his son was both angry and upset. He put his book down and was about to leave when one of the most powerful magical flares - his own included - that he had ever known echoed in his magical aura. Suppressing an oath, he checked quickly to see that the person on the receiving end of all that magic was still alive, then teleported himself quickly down to the cottage, though not forgetting to cloak himself first to avoid detection.

Two minutes was more enough for him to become Luri and to settle himself comfortably in the chair with his book. A few moments later the door burst open, and his son threw himself through it as if a pack of hell-hounds were after him. He took one look at his father and promptly threw himself into his arms, sobbing profusely. Braton sighed, and hugged him tight, gently steering the weeping boy over to the fireplace.

“I... I think I may have killed him!” Castiel sobbed.

“Hush, Cas. Come and sit down, and tell me all about it.”

He thought-cast a sleeping spell as they sat down on the sofa. Castiel sobbed a little more, but his eyes were already closing, and in under a minute he was fast asleep. Braton felt a bit guilty about putting him under like this, but he thought sleep would do his son the world of good. Besides, he had a fair idea of what had happened to cause all this. And the visitor who was racing to the cottage this very moment would know for sure.

+~+~+

“Tell me”, he said quietly.

Gabriel sat in the other chair. He looked nervous.

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I did”, he muttered, glancing anywhere but at Braton.

“You’d be amazed at the things I'd believe, Gabriel. Try me.”

Gabriel drew a hand across his face.

“It was Zack. He jumped him on his way back from school. I was held up, and got there just as he had Cas pinned to a tree.”

Braton frowned. “Go on”, he said.

“Cas looked terrified, but before I could reach them, he thrust out at him. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life! That thug flew backwards at must be over a hundred miles an hour! And the strangest thing; although he went sort of diagonally upwards, I’m sure he didn’t hit a single tree. He's not…..”

“That particular waste of space is fine. A little winded, perhaps, and a lot wiser. And colder.”

“Colder?” Gabriel looked at him in surprise.

“Cas blasted him about a thousand miles due north. He ended up on the edge of the polar ice-cap. He's on an island recovering, and will fly back later.”

Gabriel's mouth fell open.

“Wow!”

“I don’t think he or any of the other pagari will be picking on Cas again any time soon.”

“But how? I mean, we’re magical creatures, but that? That’s a whole new level of power. Where did he get it from?”

“That I can’t tell you”, Braton said. “I’ve put him to sleep for tonight; he’ll do better not thinking about what happened.”

“But he’s all right?”

“He just needs some sleep, that's all.”

Gabriel hesitated.

“I failed him today, didn’t I?” he said sadly.

“You can’t be there every time, Gabriel”, Braton said, comfortingly. “He has to make his own mistakes, and live his own life. But you have an important role to play in that life. He’s lucky to have you.”

“He’s lucky you’re here. You’re a better father to him than Roc.”

Braton narrowly suppressed a wince.

“I’m his blood”, he said carefully. “I love him like a son.”

“You'd be a good dad, Uncle Luri.”

Drop it!

“Cas is the closest thing I have to a son right now”, the god said evasively. “Don’t tell your parents about what happened, Gabriel. They’ve got more than enough on their plates with the rest of you. And talking of plates, it's cake time!”

He’d chosen the perfect way to side-track the golden-winged pygar. Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the sight of the chocolate cake that had just appeared on the sideboard.

+~+~+

Braton had sent Gabriel (plus a generous slice of cake) home the previous evening, saying he would let Castiel sleep at the cottage overnight. He was reading at the table when a sleepy pygar stumbled into the room, yawning widely. Braton smiled at the sight. His son was definitely not a morning person.

“There's a shake, and breakfast will be ready shortly”, he smiled. “Sleep well?”

Castiel looked at him uncertainly, then his eyes suddenly widened.

“Zach.....”

“He won't be bothering you again, Cas”, Braton said firmly. “He's learned his lesson. The hard way, as bullies often do. You're doing well in school, I see.”

The change of subject worked. His son smiled.

“I'm top of my class, and that includes some boys up to two years older.”

“I'm glad to hear that”, Braton said, finishing his drink. “But there are some things school can't, or won't teach you. I’d like you to start coming here as well.”

“Uncle Luri?”

“One hour, every evening. I can teach you some things you need to know.”

“Like what?”

Braton paused. His son sipped his shake, and managed to get banana froth all over his upper lip. The god managed not to smile, but it was close.

“Do you believe in destiny, Cas?”

“I…. I’m not sure….”

“You and that trickster brother of yours each have your own destinies, though they are linked in some way. I can help you achieve yours, and I may even be able to help him achieve his. But here, I have to help you.”

“Have to? Why?”

Braton smiled.

“I’m your blood, Cas. That’s just what I do.” He clicked his fingers, and a cooked breakfast appeared in front of his son. “Eat up and I'll walk you to school, then go talk to your parents about our new arrangement.”

Castiel eagerly tucked in, managing to add sauce to the milk froth already on his face. Braton watched him thoughtfully, his eyes bright with something that may or may not have been tears.

+~+~+

“I don't want to go home”, Castiel said, as they approached the North Gate.

I don't want you to go either, Braton thought unhappily. But go you must.

He ruffled his son's hair affectionately.

“Uncle Luri.... can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Cas. Anything.”

His son hesitated.

“Do you know who my real father is?”

Braton froze.

“What makes you say that?” he hedged.

His son turned two brilliant blue orbs on him. Braton didn't flinch, but it was a near thing.

“Roc doesn't like me”, the boy said flatly. “He plays with the others, but never me. Gabriel was right what he said the other day. It's just 'functional'. As if he's being forced to do it. He's not my real father.”

“Are you suggesting your papa has been unfaithful?”

“That's it. Papa could never do that. But I still know Roc's not my father. I just don't know how I know!”

He looked adorably frustrated. Braton stopped and pulled his son into a hug.

“Cas, you are right”, he said softly. “It's not my place to tell you something like that, though I do know who your real father is. I have to say that I've never actually met him.”

And may the Fates forgive me the half-lie, he thought bitterly. I have, truly, never met myself. Because, my truly loved son, you can never be allowed to know the whole truth, or it would change the way you live your life.

“But maybe one day you'll get to meet him”, he went on. “Just don't spend your whole life looking for him. Live your life as you, Castiel James Novak, not the son of a father who's not here. Be yourself. And remember, at least you'll always have me.”

The boy looked a bit more cheerful at that.

“Thanks, Uncle Luri”, he smiled.

Braton's heart melted, and he was glad to realize that they were at the gate to his son's house. The god's face darkened as he followed his son in.

Families!

+~+~+

“Well”, Metatron admitted that evening, “you were right. Boy, were you right!”

“He reacted?” Gadreel asked.

“He blasted someone a thousand miles away!”

There was a pointed silence from the portal.

“He did what?” Gadreel said eventually. “Three generations descended from a demigod?”

“Four from a god”, Metatron corrected. “But then again, it is Chronos' line. Time gods are chancy things.”

“Hmm”, Gadreel said. “Well, better choose the chap you're going to threaten this brat carefully, then. Because you may be sending the guy to his doom!”

Metatron grinned.

“Fortunately, he's already volunteered!” he grinned, before cutting the transmission. He walked over to the chess cube and looked thoughtfully at it. Playing the long game and playing carefully, that was his way. His white queen moved back and up, and the new line of sight showed him a black pawn several blocks away, annoyingly protected by a black bishop. But he was getting there.

+~+~+

Eleven years earlier

Although elves and their associated races (including pagari) physically came of age at eighteen, they mentally aged twice as fast as humans. Thus pagari had two coming-of-age ceremonies, the first on their ninth birthdays. Few amongst Larne's and Roc's acquaintances were surprised when, on reaching this particular milestone, their third son exercised his right to change his surname to that of his father. He had always been the latter's favourite; his elder brothers Michael and Lucifer were constantly fighting, and of his younger ones Gabriel was always in trouble for some escapade or other, whilst Castiel was just.... weird.

Castiel. By the gods, Raphael had come to hate his youngest sibling, blaming him for the growing rift between his parents. It was obvious that the boy wasn't Roc's blood, yet the alpha pygar was still tolerating his presence in the house, albeit reluctantly. Raphael just did not know why, but over the past year he had increasingly come to realize just how much he just wanted the kid gone. 

And now he had the wherewithal to possibly achieve just that. A few months back he had uttered his dislike of his brother in a prayer to the gods in his local church. Apparently someone had been listening, because a visiting priest had met him there soon after and offered him a solution; a spell to turn his annoying brother human. The potion had cost him several months' worth of allowance, and the priest had also warned him that it could not be used within twelve miles of their home, which meant Raphael would have to wait for the forthcoming school trip to the new town of Yellowbury. 

Raphael had been worried about how their warlock relative might take things – Castiel had seemed to be a favourite of the man – but not long after he had acquired the vial, he had overheard Luri talking to someone about how he utterly hated and despised humans, apparently over some incident in his past. The young pygar also took the precaution of doping Gabriel's food the day before the trip took place, so he was too ill to go; fortunately he didn't have to worry about his elder brothers, as they had been barred from the trip for fighting (again). Then it was just a question of getting the annoying dark-winged freak alone for a moment. 

His chance finally came when they were split up to find certain items in the town, and he saw Castiel disappearing off into what would one day be the town's cake and sweet shop, a truly horrendous building which had been designed to make it look like it had been made out of gingerbread and other assorted confectionery. Honestly, candy canes as door frames, toffee-coloured window ledges and a chocolate-coloured front door? Some people should not be allowed to design buildings!

Silently, Raphael followed his brother into Sweet Nothings (even the name made him want to retch!), his hand on the small vial in his pocket. Splash the stuff on Castiel's wings, utter the three words on the label (the priest had warned him not to say them out loud beforehand, as they were very powerful), and the brat would be human. Roc would be sure to kick him out then! Creeping up quietly behind his target, he took the bottle from his pocket, then removed the small stopper and threw the contents onto his brother's over-long black wings. Before the freak could turn around, he uttered the three words on the label:

'Transitio Despeci Abakere!'

Nothing happened. Castiel stared at his brother in shock.

“Rafe! Your wings!”

Raphael had sheathed his own wings to keep his entrance quiet, but as he looked round he could see golden feathers falling rapidly to the ground. He tried to unsheathe his wings, but nothing happened. A sharp pain ran down his back.

“You're human!” Castiel said in awe.

“This is all your fault!” Raphael screamed. The pain in his back was getting worse, and he was already ankle-deep in his own feathers. “I'll kill you!”

He advanced on his brother, and reached out to grab his coat. Castiel made to push him away – and Raphael was immediately hurled all the way to the back of the shop, where he crashed heavily into the wall and lay in agony on the floor. He eventually scrambled to his feet, and after a quick glance at his brother, fled.

+~+~+

Metatron smiled as he watched all this unfold from the corner of the shop. Exactly as Gadreel had guessed. And at the moment of the attack, he had seen it; one of the many boxes stacked on the shelves which had looked like the others right up to the attack, but had then glowed with a purple light. He crossed over, took it down, and opened it. As the writing on the outside of the container had implied, there was indeed a piece of gingerbread inside. Cut into the shape of a letter 'E'.

The god smiled. His first item.

+~+~+

Gadreel was pleased at his success, though when he described what had happened, he went silent for some reason.

“What's wrong?” Metatron demanded.

“It just sounds like a story I've heard on this planet”, Gadreel said. “Two kids break into a house made of confectionery, get caught by the witch who owns it, and end up tipping her into her own oven.”

“Lovely!” Metatron said. “And your point?”

“None as yet”, Gadreel said. “But I'll look forward to seeing what form the second item takes. If there's a common link, it could help later on.”

+~+~+

Roc did not take the news that his third son was now human all that well, even though the transformation was clearly his own fault. That it had involved Castiel was the icing on the cake, and the arrival of his mate's annoying brother was the cherry on the top of that icing. He would have glared at said brother, but his innate sense of self-preservation limited it to an angry thought in his direction.

Luri raised an eyebrow at him, and Roc reminded himself not to even think those kind of thoughts. Freaky warlock mind-reader!

“It's totally Rafe's fault”, Luri said unsympathetically. “If he will go accepting strange vials from strange people, this sort of thing is bound to happen. Stranger danger, remember?”

Larne looked at their guest beseechingly.

Can't you do anything about it, Luri?” he said, putting the slightest of stresses on the name. “He is your blood too, remember?”

The warlock gave him a sharp look.

“Clearly there's something wrong with the bloodline, if he does something as dumb as that”, he said sharply. “Yes, I can reverse it all right.”

Raphael looked up from where he had been crouched by the fireplace. 

“You can?” he said hopefully.

Braton looked hard at him.

“Yes”, he said, a strange smile on his face. “Eventually.”

“What do you mean, 'eventually'?” Roc snapped.

Luri turned to glare at him, and the alpha took a step back.

“Changing species is a powerful spell”, the warlock snapped, “and not one to be undertaken lightly. If I tried to undo it now, it might not work, and it could damage or even kill him. No, he'll have to wait for a year and a day before I can undo this. It serves him right. If he hadn't been trying to inflict the same spell on his own brother, he wouldn't be in this mess!”

“And don't think we aren't going to have a Talk about that”, Larne reminded his third son, who blushed and instinctively tried to hide, before realizing his wings were no longer there.

“What about school?” Roc asked angrily. “You know they'll tease him something awful.”

“Again, he should have thought of that”, Luri said acidly. “Understand this Roc; I'm only doing this for Larne. And if your idiot son tries anything like this ever again, he'll revert back to human permanently. If not worse.”

“Worse?” Raphael said, panicked. “What...?”

Luri had vanished. Larne went over to try to comfort his son, ignoring the frown on his mate's face.


	6. Cold Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the person watching over you doesn't really want to. Watch over you.

Nine years earlier

Dean Winchester was most definitely a pretty standard human. Of course like everyone he had a magical aura, but the traditional test on his twelfth birthday two years ago had revealed precisely zero magical talent, apart from the ability to cast the standard minor spells such as Healing and Warding that everyone had. He privately thought this a good thing as he wanted to grow up and become a great warrior, and magic would only get in the way.

No magical talents, perhaps, but Dean did seem to have a sixth sense when it came to his little brother, and when someone was picking on him. Only that day he had surprised poor Mr. Brokenshire by suddenly hurtling out of his classroom without explanation, reaching his brother just as Fergus Adams had had him pinned to the lockers. The bully hadn't even heard him coming, and Dean had taken great satisfaction in leaving him hanging from one of the coat-pegs in the cloakroom. It was fortunate, he thought on belated reflection, that it was Mr. Brokenshire whose classroom he had fled; at least he had accepted Dean's explanation on his eventual return. 

He sighed as he walked through the park towards his home. His father had come home drunk again last night, and was almost certainly close to losing whatever his latest job was – Dean had stopped keeping track, it was so depressingly predictable. Fortunately Sammy was off to a study session with some other nerds, so he would be safe from their increasingly erratic father. John Winchester had not fallen so far as to actually strike his own sons.

Yet, Dean thought bitterly.

Then there was the weird thing about his money-box (the real one under he loose floorboard behind the cupboard, not the fake one with a few dollars he kept in his bedside cabinet so his father could thieve from his own sons). He had counted it last week, and had been positive that there had only been twenty-one dollars and a few coins in it, yet when he had gone to it this morning to take out money to buy food for them both, there had been a fifty dollar bill folded up in the bottom. It wasn't the first time that had happened, either.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he walked straight into the robed figure standing on the pathway. He was about to apologize when he recognized him. His monk.

“Hi”, Dean said warily. He hoped this wasn't more bad news.

“It is bad, though not any more”, the monk said airily, as if Dean had spoken his thoughts out loud. 

The boy looked at him, but followed him to sit down on a park bench. The monk pulled a set of papers out of his pocket and handed them to Dean.

“What are these?” the boy asked, puzzled.

“The deeds to your house.”

“What?” Dean stared at him in shock.

The monk sighed.

“Some of your father's work 'colleagues' corralled him into a card game”, he explained. “Fixed, of course. He ended up losing the house.”

Dean stared at the papers, uncomprehendingly.

“And now?” he asked eventually.

Somehow he knew there was a smile beneath that long cowl.

“We, ahem, 'persuaded' his fellow gamblers of the errors of their ways”, he said enigmatically.

“Persuaded?” Dean said doubtfully.

“There may have been the slightest of implied threats about their possibly experiencing brief amphibian-hood. But they proved surprisingly amenable. Even handed over their winnings from their other victims, which has all been returned.”

“And how do I explain all this to dad?” Dean asked.

“He'll just remember a game where he bet the deeds, and ended up breaking even”, the monk explained. “All is well, Dean. We may have taken a few extra dollars off those reprobates and stashed it in your safe box, though.”

That explained the fifty, Dean thought.

“You'd better be getting home”, the monk said. “Remember, you still have the amulet. If you need me, call me.”

He walked away. Dean instinctively felt for the amulet around his neck, then sighed, got up and headed for home.

+~+~+

Eight years earlier

“Something's bothering you, Cas?” 

Braton looked across the table, where his son was frowning over a particularly complicated telekinesis spell. His fingers were, as ever, stained in ink, and he looked every inch the frustrated, overworked student. The young pygar sighed, and pushed the scroll away from him.

“Cousin Uriel is visiting”, he said quietly. “He worries me, Uncle Luri.”

Braton nodded. Larne Novak was the youngest of four brothers, and the god's cover story was that the god's Arcanian persona, Luri, was the third brother, who had gone to Casonia to study magic, been reported missing, and returned unexpectedly (from that country) alive. Uriel was the eldest son of Larne's eldest brother Ruon, some eight years younger than Larne. He too was a warlock, and had been openly suspicious of Luri since hearing of him.

“He hasn't done anything to hurt you, has he?” Braton asked.

“Not exactly”, his son admitted.

“Huh?”

His son looked embarrassed.

“I'm probably imagining it”, he said reluctantly, “but ever since he arrived, I feel odd every time I leave the town, as if something is pulling me back. And it only started since he came.”

“I see”, Braton said thoughtfully.

“I'm probably just being silly.....”

“Someone as smart as you doesn't do silly”, Braton said firmly. “Finish up your reading, Cas. I'm going to look into this.”

+~+~+

He was back in less than ten minutes. 

“Cas”, he smiled, “how are the teleportation spells coming on?”

“Good”, his son smiled. “Though I'm still nauseous after landing.”

“I think we should try somewhere a bit different for dinner”, Braton grinned. “There's a restaurant in Triss that I think you'd enjoy.”

“That's hundreds of miles away!” his son objected.

“You can do it”, Braton reassured him. “You'll be fine, I promise.”

+~+~+

“This is nice”, Castiel said, between mouthfuls of a delicious if strange food called 'pizza'. Braton looked at the tomato smeared liberally around his son's mouth, and wondered wryly how he had ended up being such a messy eater.

“Yes”, he said. “The Tresori are a strange bunch; usually as lazy as sin, but every time the Vizurians poke so much as a sword over the border, they all go berserk and charge into battle.”

He looked up as if expecting something, but nothing happened.

“What is it?” Castiel asked.

Braton smiled.

“The sound of chickens coming home to roost!” he said enigmatically, before biting a chunk out of his own pizza. “This thing could really do with something sharper. Like pineapple, say.”

“Fruit on bread?” his son queried. “That'll never catch on!”

+~+~+

Metatron smiled as he moved his white bishop into position for an attack on where he suspected several minor black pieces were gathering, then teleported himself down to the planet. He was a little surprised that the brat had managed to get himself as far as the south coast of his home continent, but he supposed the warlock uncle of his had helped. The two had obligingly strolled around the town before leaving, and Metatron was now following their trail, having copied the detector spell onto his onyx ring as Gadreel had suggested.

He was in the High Street before his ring suddenly felt warm on his finger. Moving carefully, he followed the trail to a shoe shop, and.... there it was! A single slipper, rather incongruously made of glass for some reason, glowing with a soft grey magical light and resting on a velvet cushion. A cushion on which there was a monogrammed letter 'O'.

The shop owner didn't understand why he wanted to buy the cushion as well, but he reckoned that the short guy's money was as good as anybody else's. He would only revise that opinion the following day, when the money had disappeared from his safe. By which time it was too late.

Metatron had the second item.

+~+~+

Larne opened the door, and sighed in relief.

“Br... Luri” he quickly corrected. “Thank the Fates you've arrived. Where's Cas?”

“Sleeping over at the cottage”, Braton said airily. “I thought it best not to to bring him back tonight, under the circumstances.”

“Uriel's having....”, Larne stopped and blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”

“Your nephew is having a fit?”

Larne stared in shock at the god, who sighed and moved past him and into the front room. Their dark-skinned relative was curled up on a rug in front of the fireplace, moaning in agony, his grey wings wrapped around him.

“What's wrong with him?” Larne asked.

“He meddled in something that didn't concern him”, Braton said crisply, “and now he's paying the price. Like Rafe, some lessons have to be learnt the hard way.”

Uriel groaned again.

“Can you stop it?” Larne asked.

“I could”, Braton said dryly. “Not sure if I want to, though.”

Larne stared at him in shock.

“But he's family!” 

Braton sighed and waved a hand in Uriel's direction, and the pygar's writhing slowly stopped. He pulled himself up into a chair, and glared daggers at the newcomer.

“Care to tell your uncle exactly why you're in this state?” Braton said silkily.

Uriel growled, but said nothing.

“What do you mean?” Larne asked. 

Braton turned to him.

“This bastard put a track and drain spell on Cas”, he said. “Trying to tap into his magical aura, and take it for himself one step at a time. Every time Cas left the town however, the spell came under strain. I reversed the spell, locked it into place and took him to the far end of the continent, hence the agony. Which I think it's time to resume....”

“No!” Uriel begged. “Please!”

“Don't!” Larne said, glaring at him. “He is blood, after all.”

Braton looked at him, then smiled.

“Great of heart as ever”, he sighed. “Very well. But”, and he snapped his fingers as he spoke, “I'm reducing this shrimp to the level of hedge-wizard. And if he ever tries to cast another major spell in his life, it'll be his last!”

There was a distinct crackle, and something blue fizzled in the air above Uriel before disappearing. The dark-skinned man moaned again, and sank to the floor, his head in his hands. He looked up at the god, but Braton had vanished.

+~+~+

“Stop!”

Metatron paused. 

“Let me hazard a totally wild guess”, Gadreel's voice echoed through the portal. “The item was a slipper, you say?”

“Yes?” Metatron said warily, wondering what this was all about.

“Made of glass, by any chance?”

Metatron gulped.

“How the fuck did you know that?” he demanded, almost angrily.

Gadreel chuckled.

“I didn't”, he said, “but I see the connection now. Somehow all seven items tie in with Earth fairy-tales. The glass slipper is from one where this girl wears a pair to a dance with a prince, but has to flee when the magic making her beautiful clothes runs out at midnight. She leaves a glass slipper behind in the rush, and he uses it to track her down.”

“So can you use that to tell what the other items are?” Metatron demanded eagerly.

“Not directly”, Gadreel admitted. “Both the stories so far are very common. But I'll tell you what. Once you're close to getting the next item, contact me straight away. I may be able to suggest where to look, or at least what to look for.”

+~+~+

Seven and a half years earlier

Sam Winchester was, as kids his age went, fairly truthful. Of course he lied on occasion – with a drunken father like his and his brother's, the need arose pretty often – but for a ten-year-old he considered himself honest. Ish.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that the one major lie he chanced to tell at this time in his life would result in some very painful consequences down the line.

He had recently got himself a job working a couple of hours an evening at a local shop; just deliveries, fetching and carrying stuff, but it paid. And with his sudden increase in wealth, he had treated himself to a jumper he had wanted (Dean bought all his regular clothes for him), a truly stunning exercise in orange and black that he knew his brother would hate. He'd bought it a size larger than he needed because even at ten, he was already shooting up in height. Indeed, once he had worn it, he could offer to let his brother borrow it. And because Dean loved him, he would have to wear it!

He arrived home that evening to find their room locked as usual, and let himself in with his key. Dean was probably still at the whore house, where they let him wait tables in the restaurant there (he would not be allowed into the back for at least another three years). Sam sighed, put his books on his bedside table, and checked their calendar. Then he went pale.

Oh hell! It was Dean's birthday today, and he had clean forgotten!

He looked frantically around the room, hoping as if by some miracle a gift would materialize then and there for him. He had nothing....

Then a slow smile creased his features. Of course. The jumper. 

From a corner of the room, a dark-winged figure watched him in silence.

+~+~+

Seven years earlier

Braton had invited the two youngest Novaks to spend the day with him in his cottage, and they had had a picnic by the lake before both boys had gone for a swim. Castiel had then decided to sunbathe for a while, whilst Gabriel went to the cottage for a lie-down.

“Or for the muffins he saw on the table”, Braton said with a grin, looking knowingly at his son.

“You didn't poison them or anything?” Castiel asked anxiously. 

“A mild sleeping spell, that's all”, Braton reassured him. “You've both got that test the day after tomorrow, and you'll be spending tomorrow studying. He could do with the rest.”

Castiel didn't bother asking how his uncle knew all that. 

“You can see Gabe studying?” he chuckled. “That would be a first!”

“Actually I can”, Braton said. “If he thinks it will help you, he'll do it. He's a good brother.”

“With Rafe, that's a low bar!”

“And Mike and Luke?” Braton asked, sipping on a glass of water. “Are they still at each other's throats?”

“Worse than ever?” Castiel sighed. “Fortunately they're both devoted to papa, so they keep it under wraps at home, but at school it's like the Rohaji Wars all over again!”

Braton smiled.

“Uncle Luri?”

“Yes, Cas?”

“Have you ever... I mean, would you.... did you...?”

Braton quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Today might be good, Cas.”

His son scowled at him.

“Would you ever have children?”

Braton's face grew cold.

“I'm sorry”, his son blurted out. “That was rude of me, and.....”

“It was a fair question”, Braton sighed. He hesitated, before continuing. “Fatherhood is one of the most terrifying things in this world, Cas. Knowing that there is someone out there with your blood, someone you would die to protect, someone you have to let live their own life and make their own mistakes.... it's a feeling of total powerlessness. And the more powerful you are to start with, the further you have to fall.”

Castiel just looked at him. Braton's heart skipped a beat.

“I do have someone out there”, the god said eventually, “but... well, it's complicated. Part of being a parent is letting go, you see. And much as I would like to spend every minute of my existence with him, I can't. If he knew I was his father, he's spend the rest of his life trying to be my son, rather than just be himself. I could never do that to him.”

“He's lucky to have you as a father, anyway”, Castiel said quietly.

He is, Braton thought. And he can never know it.

+~+~+

Two days after his son's visit, Braton arrived at the cottage to find he had an unexpected visitor. His mate's grandfather.

“Kairos”, he said carefully. He was not surprised that the god of critical time had found him here; Andros knew he left for somewhere at this time every evening, and would have told as much to his grandfather. And his wonderful husband never asked about it.

“Braton”, Kairos smiled. “You are well?”

“As well as can be expected”, Braton said warily. “What brings you here, friend?”

Kairos sat down in one of the fireside armchairs.

“Something is happening in Mors' domain”, he said slowly. “I do not know what – I cannot of course go there – but I can feel the balance of future possibilities being pushed. Someone is trying to change things.” 

“What can I do about it?” Braton asked.

Kairos sighed and stood up.

“It is not for one of the Five to advise Braton Stone”, he said slowly. “And my... sympathies for you and my grandson put me in a difficult position. Besides, changing the future is always dangerous. I mean, it's not as if you can exactly write your own destiny, is it?”

He looked meaningfully at Braton, who slowly nodded.

“I understand”, he said, a smile creasing his lips. “Yes, you could certainly never give me any such advice. Thank you for coming, Kairos.”

+~+~+

Six and a half years earlier 

Dean tensed as he heard familiar drunken steps outside the door. Normally he had some warning of his father's arrival, and was able to get Sammy to the safety of their room. An early arrival must mean that his father had lost yet another job, which made the chance of his taking his anger out on his sons that much more likely. Instinctively he reached his hand inside his shirt and grasped the amulet that always hung round his neck.

Their father almost fell through the door, and Dean manoeuvred Sammy behind him, having whispered to him to run for it once he had a chance to get clear. 

“You!” John slurred, glaring at Dean. “You've been down the whore house!”

“Not for that!” Dean protested. “Serving drinks, that was all!”

“Liar!”

His father started to take off his belt, and Dean trembled. John managed one staggering step towards the boys before there was a loud knock at the door behind him.

“Fuck off!”

The knocking continued. John swore again, then went over to open the door.

Outside stood a cowled monk. Dean suddenly felt a rush of hope.

“Not today, thanks!” John sneered, trying to shut the door.

The monk suddenly surged forward, grabbed John by the neck and pushed him across the room until his back slammed into the opposite wall, causing two cups on the nearby cupboard to totter perilously. Dean's father had gone deathly pale, his eyes staring in terror. Even though the monk was a few inches shorter than his opponent, it was clear that he was far stronger.

“Understand this, John Smith”, the monk hissed. “The day you lay a finger on those boys of yours will be the last day you spend alive on this planet! And your death will be a thousand times more painful that any wounds you would have inflicted on them! This is not a threat. This is a guarantee!”

He shook the stunned man for several seconds, then threw him to the floor, and swept out before either boy could say anything. Dean finally pulled himself together and pushed Sammy upstairs, leaving his father lying prostate on the floor.

Their father never threatened either of them again.


	7. The Goldilocks Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Metatron, it's coming together. For Alistair, it's coming right at him.

Six and a quarter years earlier

The auditions were running late, and the young actor was sweating as he sat there, reading through the script the secretary had eventually presented to him ('when the guy two ahead of you comes out, sweet cheeks, same as everyone else'). He had had several minor roles since losing that bet and going for that first audition, but this was the first truly major one he'd ever been asked to read for. Okay, it was for a character who was apparently a demon, but needs must. A three-episode arc on a long-running series, with the possibility that people would be so overwhelmed with his affable charm and winning personality that he'd end up becoming a major star with a million followers on Twitter. 

He wondered wryly if Vicky had put something in his cereal that morning. 

He was about to read through the script for a third time when he heard an expression of surprise from across the room.

“Misha?”

He looked up, and saw the guy who had been repairing the coffee machine was just closing it up, and was staring at him. He stared back, nonplussed.

“The bus”, the man prompted with a grin. “And the hickeys?”

The actor flushed bright red.

“You were the TA?”

“And you were the not-so-betrayed lover!” the man smirked, clearly enjoying the actor's discomfort. “Good to see you doing so well. You're going for the angel part, then?”

“Demon”, the actor corrected. “Three episodes, they say.”

“Angel, demon, whatever.” The man pressed a few buttons on the machine, and smiled knowingly. “This is a good part, you know. You'll do well in it.”

“Only if I get it!” the actor laughed.

“Oh, you'll get it all right”, the man grinned, removing the drink and handing it to the actor. “Green chai, no milk, extra sugar, right? I'd say good luck, but you won't need it.”

He strode away whistling, and was gone. The actor was about to resume his reading when it hit him.

How the hell did he know how I take my tea? 

+~+~+

Six years earlier 

“Uncle Luri?”

Braton huffed in mock annoyance, and smiled at the twelve-year-old.

“Yes, Cas?”

“Can we have Heart Of Stone for story time? Please?”

Braton smiled as he ruffled Castiel’s unruly hair. Those puppy eyes got to him every time.

“Again?” he said, sounding resigned. “You only had it yesterday!”

“But it’s so beautiful! Besides, I want to be like that one day. Find someone I truly love, and stay with him forever.”

It was fortunate the god was behind him when he said this, or his son might have seen the look of pain that briefly creased his features.

“Dac and Con were fortunate, Cas” he said lightly. “Not everyone meets their handsome prince, you know.”

His son seemed to think for a moment.

“Uncle Luri?” he said cautiously.

“Yes, Cas?”

“You said you had a son out there. But you never married?”

“Not everyone gets their happily ever after, Cas”, Braton said evasively. “Finish your maths, then we’ll have that story. And some buttered teacakes.”

“Cool! Uncle Luri?”

Braton rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Cas?”

“Dac must have loved Con an awful lot. Why didn't he just tell him?”

“People behave strangely when they're in love, Cas”, his uncle said lightly, ruffling his hair again. He turned over a small hour-glass on the table. “Now, you’ve got five minutes to finish those sums, or the teacakes are all mine!”

Castiel squealed, and gave the maths sheet his full attention. His uncle smiled down at him, and made a mental note to get some medicine to stop whatever was making his eyes keep watering of late.

+~+~+

“Once upon a time”, Braton began, “there was a little boy called Drake, although everyone who knew him called him Dac, because that was the way he used to say his name when he first learned to talk. He was an alpha, and his life was pretty much okay until not long after his fourth birthday, when his papa died giving birth to a beta brother, Soren. This seemed to break the boys’ father, who did little to care for his sons until his own death twelve years later. Dac was by then almost seventeen, and had grown fiercely protective of his little brother. He worked every hour he could to raise the money for Soren to go to mage school, and often went without food or new clothes himself so his brother had the best. It would be nice to say Soren was grateful for everything his brother did, but although he wasn’t a bad kid, he had just grown up always expecting Dac to be there for him. He respected his elder brother, but it never crossed his mind to thank him for all he’d done. 

So when at eighteen Soren fell in love with an omega called Gary and decided to marry him and attend mage school in his new husband's town, he didn’t even think of the effect this would have on his brother, taking away the one thing that had been constant in his troubled life. The prospect of not having Soren to care for left Dac feeling empty inside, and although he hid it well, he spent many hours sitting alone at home, feeling desperately lonely.

Except.

Gary had a younger brother, Constantine, an omega like himself who lived in Dac’s town. He and Dac naturally had to spend time with each other planning their brothers’ wedding, and found themselves continuing to do so even after it. Companionship grew into friendship, and then into something more. But Dac's affection had always been totally focussed on his brother, and he thought so little of himself that he could not believe anyone could consider him worthy of love. So when Con finally said ‘I love you’, Dac fled in horror. Only later did he realize what a fool he’d been, but by then it was too late. Con had disappeared.

Dac was frantic. He searched everywhere for his friend, but to no avail. Until one day Con's father, a powerful warlock, arrived in town, and told him what had happened. A broken-hearted Con had gone somewhere Dac could never reach him, and his father had tracked him down and tried to reason with him, only to fail. Con had no wish to carry on without the man he loved. Con's father refused to tell Dac exactly what his son had made him do, but he suggested that if Dac wished to see him again, he might try the town gardens.

Dac hurried there immediately, and after a frantic search found what he was both looking for and dreading; a statue of a warrior that shone white in the setting sun. Deprived of the love he had sought, Con had indeed found rest - by becoming stone. Desperately Dac climbed up onto the statue and kissed it once, twice, three times.....

… and at that moment, Dac became aware that something was different. The lips he was kissing were no longer cold stone, but yielding skin. The man behind them was kissing him back! 

It was impossible, yet it was true. Con was alive! Dac stopped kissing him and instead hugged him close, as if he were afraid of losing him again. And although he would have been the first to admit how terrible he was with words, for once in his life he managed to find exactly the right thing to say:

“I love you!”

Con smiled, and hugged him back.

“I love you too. I always have, and I always will.”

He hesitated, then they both said exactly the same thing at the same time. 

“Marry me!”

They looked at each other and both laughed, then walked slowly from the park hand in hand, together as one, as if they were made for each other. Which they must have been, as they proceeded to live happily ever after.

Castiel smiled up at his father. 

“I do love that story.”

The older man smiled back at him.

Yes, Cas, he thought. You should. And I really wish you could avoid the pain, the terrible pain of ever understanding just why.

+~+~+

Five years earlier

Thirteen-year-old Castiel Novak was easy-going, kind, generous, and rarely thought the worst of anybody. 

Rarely. In that small category lay (obviously) his brother Rafe, his cousin Uriel, his cold 'father', and in the last year his new teacher, Mr. Roman. Castiel had recently joined the teacher's class on Dimensional Spell-casting, and it had quickly become apparent that the man, for whatever reason, disliked him. He had not told his papa about this – his grades remained good, so he didn't need to know – but he had confided in his uncle, who had told him to let him know if things got any worse.

“Dick by name and dick by nature!” Gabriel had sneered. “He's just jealous. That weird habit you have of responding to new stuff as if you already knew it, but it had just slipped your mind. Freaks him out. Freaks me out, come to that!”

Castiel swatted at him.

“I have homework to do”, he said. “Mr. Roman wants us to present him with an item we've obtained from over a hundred miles away, using DSC. I've chosen a prayer-book from a priest's house in Bellisaria.”

“Rather boring”, Gabriel suggested.

“Transporting religious items takes more energy”, his brother explained. “That way, if Mr. Roman give me a low mark, I can appeal to Principal Westcott.”

Gabriel nodded, and returned to his reading. His brother studying would have impressed Castiel, had he not spotted the comic sticking out over the top of his geography book.

+~+~+

Having taken the standard precautions, Castiel prepared to cast the main spell in a clearing some way outside the town walls. It was late in the evening in the forest, which meant it would be night in Bellisaria, and the three people in the house he was targeting should all be asleep. A perfect time to borrow a little something.

To make the spell work, he had to lock onto the book, transport it to where he was, then send it on to the room where Mr. Roman was studying (Castiel had had to obtain a time slot so the teacher could be ready to receive the item). The book duly materialized in front of him, but when he tried to send it on, something was blocking it. Frustrated, he extended his magic along the connection and pushed.

He suddenly found himself being pulled into the link, and yelped in pain. Panicking, he thrust all the power he had into the link in an attempt to break it. 

Three things happened simultaneously. The connection mercifully broke, and there was the sound of an explosion from the town. Castiel looked up in shock, and hurried back to see what had happened.

The third thing occurred several hundred miles away in Bellisaria, where a roof inexplicably blew off a house and half the walls were reduced to rubble.

+~+~+

There was smoke rising from one of the buildings, and Castiel quickly identified it as the school. Gabriel was stood in front of it, grinning (predictably).

“What happened?” Castiel asked anxiously.

Gabriel looked at him, and his smile faded.

“A big explosion at the back”, he said slowly. “It looks like something destroyed Mr. Roman's office. He was waiting for your DSC assignment, wasn't he?”

Castiel reddened. Gabriel looked knowingly at him.

“Looks like he got it!” he quipped. 

+~+~+

Several hundred miles away in Bellisaria, three priests had been lucky to escape the wreckage of their house, much of which lay in ruins. Fortunately their neighbours immediately offered to put them up for the night, and they spent the next hour or so sorting out what they could salvage. 

Metatron stood invisible in the still-smoking wreckage, wondering at the stupidity of some people. That fool teacher had obviously tried to use the connecting spell to harm the brat, and had got rather more than he had bargained for. Fortunately the presence of the kid's spell had activated the detection spell, and the god of scrolls was here to find item number three. At least it couldn't be the book, as the tracking spell was indicating the item was still in Bellisaria.

In the half of the house that was still standing and relatively undamaged, the god's eyes fell on a table with three bowls laid out, presumably for breakfast. There were also three chairs set out around the fire, each of different sizes. Half-hidden behind a curtain was what had once been the bedroom with three beds in it, although that had been partly damaged by the explosion, the night sky clearly visible above. 

He pressed the small device attached to his ear – thank the Fates no-one could see it, as it looked cringe-worthily embarrassing! - and waited before speaking.

“You're coming through”, Gadreel whispered, even though it was unlikely anyone could hear him. “Describe the room to me.”

Metatron did, though he was somewhat surprised when his friend started sniggering towards the end of his description.

“There's not a golden-haired beauty lying on the smallest bed, is there?” he asked.

“No”, Metatron said, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“It's Goldilocks”, Gadreel said triumphantly. “You said there were three beds. Check the smallest one.”

Metatron did, but could not find anything. He snorted in exasperation.

“Nothing!” he snapped, even his whisper loud in the silence of the empty room. 

“Not even any other books?” Gadreel suggested.

“I scanned those first”, Metatron said. “The only other thing is set of carved wooden animals.”

To his surprise, Gadreel snorted.

“Bears!” he said

“How did you know?” Metatron asked.

“Because the full title is Goldilocks and the Three Bears!” Gadreel said. “Scan them.

Metatron did. 

“That's it!” he said triumphantly. “Jackpot!”

“What?”

“There's a letter 'R' engraved onto the bottom of the smallest one!” Metatron said, snatching it up in triumph. “Almost halfway there, bro!”

+~+~+

Four and a half years earlier

Robert ‘Bobby’ Singer sighed heavily. Today had been the worst day of his life since he’d lost his mate Rufus. He’d been impressed with how well the eighteen-year-old Dean had held it all together, supporting Sam and carrying himself erect through the tortuous service. That composure had finally cracked when Bobby had got Sam to sleep with a hot cocoa, only to pass the next room and find Dean sobbing his heart out. Poor kid. 

Bobby had finally managed to get the boy to bed with another cocoa, then returned to boot out the last of the family’s suddenly copious relatives. He shooed the last of the idiots out the gate with the standard and unmeant promises to ‘keep in touch’, and returned to the house for some peace and quiet. Pouring himself a bourbon, he sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

A cowled figure was sitting opposite him, sipping a glass of water; Bobby recognized the emblem on his breast pocket as being a Fraternity trigram. That alone made him bite back his instinctive response to the intrusion.

“Dean asked me to be here”, the monk said quietly.

“Did he now?” Bobby said pensively. “He never mentioned it.”

“I gave him the amulet. You’ve seen it.”

“Oh. Is he….?

“I am here to help, Bobby. I know all about John's debts. You do not have to worry about them.”

“He owes over three hundred dollars!”

“Not any more. The Fraternity has cleared it all.”

Bobby's jaw dropped.

“And why the hell would you do a thing like that?” he demanded.

The visitor raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, and Bobby belatedly realized shouting at a representative of probably the most powerful being on the planet might feature on page one of the Book of Famous Last Actions. As well as his own headstone.

“Go on”, he said cautiously.

“The training school in Longley City does a two-year course for both warlocks and warriors”, the man said. “It would suit the boys well. They’ll be required to live on campus, and the Fraternity would pay for their tuition. And you could have them round to your house whenever you wanted.”

Bobby looked at him uncertainly.

“Why would you do that?”

The cowled man leaned forward. Bobby resisted the urge to scuttle back.

“You are a sharp man, Bobby Singer. You see things that others do not. You know that both those boys have destinies, especially Dean. This will help them realize those destinies.”

“And then? When the course is over?”

“We have plans. You and they must have faith.”

“That's easy for you to say!”

“Indeed it is. One more thing, Bobby. Remember when John was a bounty hunter, and tried to track down that renegade elf?”

“Yeah?”

“Elves never forget. The boys will have to change their surname, so the teachers think they are disowning their father. They shall become Dean and Sam Winchester.”

“Changing their names and moving to another town!” Bobby snorted. “Anyone would think they were wanted men!”

Braton smiled.

“They are!”

+~+~+

Four years earlier

Dean hated being here. But it was for the one thing that would force him to swallow his pride and actually ask for help. Sammy.

Like other Frat Houses, the Longley City one had a small chapel in the garden, and mercifully it was empty. The Fraternity didn't normally allow direct prayers to their patrons, but Dean figured that with the amulet and his monk, they might make an exception for him. He went in and sat cross-legged in front of the altar, where he prayed hard.

“You should have come a week ago.”

Dean looked up. A familiar cowled figure was standing to one side.

“I.... I didn't want...”

“Sam has been off school because you were too proud to ask for help, Dean. Still, at least you're here now, which is good. I suppose it's about that bully, Alistair?”

“Yeah. He's making Sammy's life hell at the moment, just because the kid is so clever. But the kid threw a fit when I said I'd go and sort him out.”

“Stop worrying, Dean. Sam can return to school tomorrow.”

“And Alistair?”

A distinct and unpleasant chuckle came from beneath the cowl. Dean was suddenly reminded exactly just what he was dealing with, and shuddered.

“Oh, it'll be a pleasure dealing with him!”

Sam came home from school the next day smiling broadly. He had had a very good day, he told his brother. Unlike Alistair McFadden, who had managed to collapse his desk, create a small storm cloud which followed the headmaster around, get sent out of class for swearing, turn all his textbooks into green slime, explode his packed lunch, and give the school secretary a tail. All before morning break. He had then managed to set fire to all three of his (former) closest friends along with the chemistry lab and his hair, flood both the main hall and the stationery room, and had finally got sent home when a tall bookcase fell on him just before lunch. On the way home he got run over by a cart, breaking both his legs. 

The following day, there was no McFadden on the register. His parents had decided to move to another town after their house had been all but destroyed by a freak and extremely localized tornado.

The Fraternity was famed for many things, but subtlety wasn't one of them.


	8. Follow, Follow, Follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean move on, and there is a whole load of yellow bricks.

Three years earlier

Braton opened his front door, and smiled knowingly. 

“I... kind of need a favour”, his son said nervously.

“A larger tree?” Braton teased.

His son tilted his head to one side, confused. 

“What?” he asked.

“One wide enough so those idiot brothers of yours can both hide behind it?”

Castiel blushed. Michael's dark head poked out from behind the great oak, followed swiftly by Lucifer's blond one. Both looked as awkward as their brother, and both had clearly been crying. Braton sighed.

“Come in, all of you”, he said resignedly. “There's juice and sandwiches, and dinner will be ready in about an hour.”

“You were expecting us?” Michael asked, wide-eyed. 

Braton looked at him. Castiel's brothers may have been technically adults, but both looked frighteningly young just now.

“You told Roc about the two of you”, he said softly. “I'm guessing the unexpected reduction in the odds of his getting grandchildren didn't go down so well?”

“He threw us out”, mumbled Lucifer, moving closer to his elder brother, who ruffled his dark hair. “Said he never wanted to see us again!”

“You can both stay here for a week, then.”

“Only a week!” Castiel gasped. “Uncle Luri!”

Braton threw him a glance. Castiel subsided.

“In a week's time they can go and join the new settlement at Yellowbury”, Braton said easily. “There'll be stuff ready for them to build their own house by then.”

“But we have to be on the list to be let in”, Michael objected.

Braton sighed, and stared at him as if waiting for something. Michael blushed, and wrapped his arm around his twin's back.

“We are on the list now, aren't we?” Lucifer said quietly.

“I once promised your papa that I would do everything I could to help his kids”, Braton said. “But any funny goings-on whilst you're here, and I may have to reconsider. As it is, you owe your kid brother for speaking up for you. Now let's get some food inside you, then Mike can have the spare bed and Luke the couch. I've teleported your belongings here already. Should be interesting when your father finds that out....” 

+~+~+

Braton glared angrily at Roc.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn't set you up for a new career on a lily-pad, waiting for a short-sighted prince to wander by!”

“Hey, I kept my side of the deal!” the alpha grumbled. 

“Barely! Cas knows you don't accept him. The whole family knows! And now this!”

“Brothers don't mate! It's just not done!”

“Unless their parents allow it. Mike and Luke are in love with each other. So you won't get any grandsons out of them. Isn't their happiness more important?”

“Not to me!”

“You're pushing your luck, Roc. I've a good mind.....”

“Luri!”

Larne hurried over to where the god had his husband backed against a wall.

“You can do so much better than this, Larne!”

“I chose Roc, for better or for worse. I love him!.”

“He threw out two of your sons, and he doesn't treat Cas right!”

“Are Mike and Luke okay?” Larne asked.

“I sent them to Yellowbury. They'll do well there. But this one....”

“Leave him be, Luri. Please? I've never asked you for anything, but....”

Braton glared at Roc again.

“Your husband has spoken for you”, he snarled. “That is enough – for now. Just remember, though, one false step.... and I'll have you!”

He vanished with a flash.

+~+~+

Dean sighed unhappily as he put the plate in front of his brother. He knew what was coming. And he was right.

“Omelettes again?”

“Hey, it’s food. Chow down, then get on with your homework. Those spells don’t zap themselves, you know.”

“We’ve had them every day this week!”

“Because I bought a whole load of eggs cheap, and needed to use them up, moaner!”

“Aren’t you eating with me?”

“I’m having something down the whore house.” Dean blushed at the partial lie; he'd be snacking at best between clients. Fortunately his brother was still glaring at his dinner, and failed to notice. “Anyway, we’re dining at Uncle Bobby’s tomorrow evening, and he always puts on a good spread.”

“I need it. I’m a growing boy.”

“You’re still a squirt!”

“Am not! I’m almost as tall as you, and still growing. I’ll be taller soon!”

“Bitch!”

“Jerk!”

Sam grinned, and Dean’s heart contracted just a little bit. It hurt when his brother was ungrateful, as he so often was. Sammy just didn’t think; he always assumed Dean would be there for him, because he always had been. And always would be.

“Make sure you’re up to date with all your homework, or I’ll go to Bobby’s alone and get Mr. Shurley next door to babysit you.”

“Ew! You wouldn’t!”

“Try me, bitch!”

“Jerk!”

Sam scowled and tucked into his meagre meal. Dean sighed, and left for the whore house. A good evening selling his body, and he’d be able to afford the new clothes Sam wanted, and maybe even put something towards a new shield for himself.

He didn’t see the cowled figure standing in the corner of the room, watching his brother disapprovingly. The figure frowned at the younger man. Sam Winchester felt an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck, but when he turned round there was no-one there.

+~+~+

Two and a half years earlier

Ever since the 'departure' of Mr. Roman, Castiel had gotten on well with all his teachers. He was polite, did his work on time and to a good standard, and his tendency to help out his classmates when they needed it (provided it was just help; he never gave out answers) made him quite popular. 

It also helped that Castiel rather liked Mr. Roman's replacement, Mr. Campbell, a grizzled Highlander from Vizuria – well, from the Highland Territory, which was de facto independent now, after suffering the standard Vizurian misrule. Mr. Campbell was seven foot tall, had red curly hair, and always wore the traditional Highland kilt to work (Balthazar Roche had, predictably, been the one to make a sarcastic comment about this on their first day, but to be fair Mr. Campbell had turned him back from a plant eventually). The teacher taught Teleportation at all three levels, and Castiel was the youngest student at Level Three.

“Teleportation itself is easy”, the teacher declared on the afternoon he was giving out their latest assignment, “especially for your race. It's what it does to your magical aura that's the problem. 'Telly lag' makes all spells cast in the hour or so after landing much more difficult, even more so if you are cloaked. So your assignment today will be to teleport somewhere, stay there for an hour cloaked, and perform any personal Category Two spell on a target of your choice during that time, then return without their having spotted you. And I require physical evidence of your success.”

“Won't that be difficult?” Balthazar asked. “They'll know the spell comes from somewhere.”

“That's why this is the Level Three class, Mr. Roche”, the teacher said with an unspoken but clearly implied 'you idiot'. “No sleep spells, of course. You'll each be going to a town or city to do this, so it's the same for everyone. I've put the locations on pieces of paper and put them all in my cap, so you'll come up in order and draw one. That'll make it fair.”

Castiel nodded, and waited his turn to take his paper. Once back in his seat, he unfurled and read it.

'King Stephen's Square, Longley City, Oakland'

“Since this is your last lesson today, I've cleared it with Mr. Dent for you to all go home early”, the teacher said, pointedly ignoring the barely suppressed cheers at that statement. “You can do the work any time, but your proof of success must be in by this time next week. Any questions? Good, none. Now scram!”

+~+~+

Teleporting to the city was easy, and Castiel landed neatly and invisibly on the steps of St. Stephen's Cathedral, on the edge of the square. It was a large rectangular-shaped plaza, with coloured stones marking out the three-barred flag of Oakland and a statue of King Stephen the First where the horizontal and two vertical bars crossed. A number of shops and stalls were scattered around the outside of the square, and Castiel scanned each of them in turn before finding a jeweller who was selling fake stones amongst the real ones. Cloaked, he spent a very pleasant hour making the man tell nothing but the truth, much to the amusement of his customers. Indeed, by the end of the time the man was shutting up the shop, despite the increasing numbers who were trying to get in, clearly having heard what was happening. 

Castiel took five sapphires as proof of his activities, two fakes and three real ones. He was about to leave when he noticed the man, standing in front of a cake stall, counting out some dollar notes. He was tall and well-built, but looked somewhat under-nourished, Castiel thought. Still invisible, he drifted over for a closer look.

Then the man looked up, and Castiel reeled back in shock. It wasn't just the stunning green colour of those eyes, but the ineffable sadness in them, as if the man had the world on his shoulders. For some reason Castiel felt a powerful surge of protectiveness towards the man, even though he was larger and more muscular than the pygar. Quietly, he took one of the real sapphires and slipped it into the man's bag. It was worth at least a hundred dollars, the pygar reckoned. Money might not buy happiness, but perhaps the man might sell it and obtain at least a better class of misery?

+~+~+

Metatron landed in the square within seconds of Castiel's departure, still feeling self-conscious about his ear-piece.

“Couldn't you have made it less.... huge?” he groused, looking around the busy square.

“I got the idea from a show about space, and the communications device one of the characters used”, Gadreel replied. “Can't remember the name, except it had a load of 'U's in it. Classy broad.”

“All right, I'm in the square”, Metatron reported. “But there's some sort of magical field around that bloody statue. I'll have to get a lot closer to wherever the fourth item is before I can detect it.”

“Describe the place to me”, Gadreel said.

“It's rectangular, shaped like the Oakland flag, and some of the stones have been coloured red, grey and blue to make the three bars”, Metatron said. “The statue is at the centre where the two bars meet the third. And there's a fringe of gold stones around the outside.”

“Gold?” Gadreel said sharply. “Or yellow?”

“Sort of between the two, I'd say”, Metatron said. “Is that important?”

Gadreel ignored the question.

“You said stones”, he said. “Do you mean stones, or bricks?”

“The flag is stones, and the border is bricks. What do you know?”

There was a pause.

“Is there any place around the outside of the square that has the word 'emerald' in the title?” Gadreel ventured.

Metatron scanned round the four sides.

“There's a small jewellery store called 'The Emerald City'”, he said. 

“Oz!”

“What?”

“It's from a tale called 'The Wizard Of Oz'!” Gadreel said excitedly. “The main character follows a road of yellow bricks to reach the Emerald City. The item has to be in there!”

Metatron looked at the shop. Unusually it was closed, although that would not present a problem. So much the better, in fact.

“You think the item will be an emerald?” he asked.

“Or a ruby”, Gadreel said. “The character wears ruby slippers. Oh, and be careful.”

“Why?”

Gadreel chuckled.

“In the book, one of the characters dies when a house falls on them!”

Metatron instinctively looked upwards. 

+~+~+

Once he was in the shop, it was almost too easy. The unmounted gemstones were split into five classes according to quality, A though E, and the only ruby in the 'C' box glowed red as soon as he reached towards it. He grinned. Over halfway there, and he had 'E', 'R', 'O' and now 'C' as four of the key word's seven letters. Too soon really to guess what it might be, but that didn't stop him from wondering. 

+~+~+

Castiel was suspicious. His uncle normally took an interest in most things he did, but his attitude towards the strange man in the square was.... well, it was just too disinterested.

“Did you stay around to find out who this man was?” the warlock asked laconically.

Castiel sipped at his milkshake and shook his head.

“I was cloaked, and I had to leave before I ran out of power”, he said ruefully. “I don't suppose you know?”

“I could find out, if you lend me your hand.”

Castiel put down his shake and stretched his hand across the table.

“The clean one”, his uncle said. Castiel pouted, but offered his left hand instead.

“Oh, that was the clean one!”

The teenager glared at him. Braton snickered, then looked hard at the boy's hand. 

“His name is Dean Winchester”, Braton said eventually. “He's twenty, a warrior attending the local academy.”

“So why did he look so sad?” Castiel asked curiously.

“He is trying to support both himself and an ungrateful brother”, Braton said slowly. “Did you feel anything when you were near him?”

Castiel was about to answer no, when he remembered. 

“I wanted to protect him”, he said. “I just felt that he was a good man.”

“Maybe not good, but certainly righteous”, Braton said. “I think you could benefit from that academy, Cas. It's run by your cousins the elves, after all. I'm sure they would accept you for next year.”

“What about Dean?” his son asked at once.

“His course finishes this summer”, Braton said. “Besides, he has other plans.”

+~+~+

“You are asking me to do you a favour?”

General Mark Allonby stared at the other person in the room, dumbfounded. For the Imperial army officer with more decorations that a Yuletide shop and a service record longer than a yeti's arm, this was a decidedly unusual occurrence. 

But then, this was a decidedly unusual request.

“I appreciate you have high standards, general”, his visitor said politely. “And that you reject around three-quarters of all applicants to your illustrious school. However, this man is talented. With your direction, he could go far.”

“You have plans for him, I suppose?”

“Indeed.”

The general hadn't reached his current status without recognizing a minefield when he saw one.

“Tell me about him”, he said instead.

“Twenty-one years old. Born Dean Smith in Oakland, but when his father died just over two years ago, he and his brother Sam moved to Longley City to attend the warrior-mage training school there, and took the name of their old home town, Winchester.”

“Why?” the general asked at once.

“Their father hunted elves at one time. Elves do not forget. They both graduated with honours, and are coming to Trivare, where Sam will attend the local university.”

“Strengths?”

“Physically strong. Plus he's very loyal. If he gives his word, you can trust him. And he has the sort of righteousness that we have both seen at least once before.”

The god looked meaningfully at the warrior. It was a measure of the general's calibre that he barely flinched.

“Weaknesses?” he asked instead.

“Far too self-deprecating. He does not believe in himself, despite the evidence. His loyalty to a skilled but thoughtless younger brother may also be an issue.”

“So where do I come in?”

“I am asking that you accept him for a four-week trial, after which you can decide whether to keep him on or not. It is my belief that you will see the worth in the man and decide to do so. The decision is however totally your own, and I pledge no comeback if you decide not to continue with him.”

The general eyed the visitor cautiously.

“You could just have slipped him in here without telling me”, he ventured.

“Yes, I could have. But I owe you for standing by young Throm Barclay when no-one else did, and giving him the chance to make good, even though I didn't know him then. And I always honour my debts.”

The general tried to wrap his mind around the idea of an Arcanian deity doing something because it was morally right. It was an unfamiliar if not an unknown concept.

“Okay, I'll do it”, he agreed.

Braton smiled.

”Thank you, general”, he said. “I think you will not be disappointed in him.”

+~+~+

“You’re going and that’s final, you idiot!”

Normally, anyone saying something like that to a graduate of Longley Academy’s School of War and Wizardry might reasonably expect to measure their subsequent lifespan in seconds. But Dean had learnt many things during his time at the academy, and one of the most important had been not to pick a fight when he knew he was going to lose. That included all fights with Uncle Bobby.

“Sam wants to do the advanced course here”, Dean said stubbornly. “And we can’t keep relying on your charity….”

“Shut up, kid!”

Dean was shocked into silence. Bobby never used the k-word unless he was really mad.

“I had that monk from the Frat House up here this afternoon”, the older man said, sitting down at the table. “He wants the two of you to go to Oxania.”

“Move to another continent? Why would we do that?”

“It’s the Fraternity, idiot! You don’t ask, you just do!”

“But Sammy….”

“Stop thinking about that damned brother of yours, Dean, and start on yourself for a bit. You’ve done nothing but work yourself into the ground for the ungrateful brat, and it makes me sick! Grow a pair, for once in your life!”

Dean stared in astonishment. Bobby had never talked to him like that before. There was an awkward silence.

“So what do we do in Oxania, then?” he asked eventually.

“The monk said he's fixed a place for Sam at Trivare University”, Bobby said, calming down. “I don't know what their plans are for you, but the Fraternity doesn’t let people down. You can trust them.”

Dean fingered the amulet in his pocket. It felt strangely warm.

“Yeah”, he muttered. “I'm beginning to think I just might.”

+~+~+

Bobby took the brothers to the Fraternity House and said his goodbyes, managing (just) not to cry. Then he left the main building, and started for the gate. A solitary monk was stood there, waiting for him. Somehow he knew it was the same one as before.

“Mr. Singer?”

“Yeah?” he said gruffly.

“The Fraternity thanks you for your efforts on those boys' behalves”, the man said gravely. “I know you would not accept money, but I have something which I think you will value rather more.”

He held out a small box. Bobby looked at him, and opened it. Then he gasped. Inside was.... the pendant. In one piece.

“You repaired it!”

“That's Rufus' work. When I told him I wished to thank you for what you had done, he suggested the pendant. He has a workshop in the next world, and asked if he could do it. He also says to tell you he is happy there, but wishes to see you live your own life to the fullest before you join him. You have years yet to fulfil his wish. Go well, Mr. Singer.”

“Wait...”

The brother had vanished. Bobby gently held his mate's amulet in his hand, and walked slowly home.


	9. Wolf At The Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even gods can feel fear.

Two years earlier

“This still doesn't seem real!”

Larne smiled at his youngest son. His joy at his youngest son's going off to the academy would only have been completed had his mate been there, but Roc had signed up to a three-month stint working on the new town at Whiteleigh, and Rafe had gone with him. It was a separation in all but name. Perhaps, Larne thought sadly, it was all for the best.

He bit back his own fears for the future and smiled at his son, who was currently trying to detach himself from Gabriel.

“Gabe!” Castiel said impatiently. “If you don't let go, I won't be able to leave!”

“That's the idea!” the tow-headed pygar muttered into his neck.

“Gabe!”

His older brother finally let go of him, and Castiel checked one last time to make sure all his bags were inside the pentagram. 

“I promise I'll write”, he said fervently. “It's only two years, and I'll be back for the holidays.”

“Still gonna miss you!” Gabriel pouted.

“Take care”, Larne smiled. “And don't forget to write your uncle as well. He got you in there, after all!”

“I promise”, Castiel smiled, before silently thinking the nine words that would transport him to the academy's main hall.

+~+~+

One and three-quarter years earlier

General Allonby pushed his long hands together, and thought long and hard about his answer.

“No”, he said at last.

And Dean's world fell away beneath him. What had he done wrong? He had passed every test, physical and mental, that had been set him. 

“But sir....”

“You did not follow Rule Three of the Training Manual”, the general observed dryly.

“'Sometimes you have to let the other side move first'”, Dean quoted.

“Exactly. And I do not want you to undertake the full course, Dean.”

“Right.” He bit back any further comment.

“I want you to teach it.”

“What?”

“You are an amazingly fast learner, but your devotion to the job inspires others. Victor is retiring and moving to Karsel in four months' time. I want you to train up and replace him.”

Dean was overjoyed.

“There will, of course, be conditions.”

Damn!

I know you currently work far too many hours to fund your brother's day-to-day expenses”, the general observed. “Now you have a decent salary, that will stop, and I expect you to spend every weekend resting. Kindly note that the whore house is not defined as 'resting' if you are working there, in whatever capacity. I cannot have you being tired on the job. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes! Yes, sir!”

Maybe good things did happen sometimes. He could hardly wait to tell Sammy.

+~+~+

One and a half years earlier

Medieval castles were not exactly designed to be the sort of places that burst at the seams with happiness, but there was no denying that the atmosphere around Fraternity Castle had been becoming strained of late. Andros Feher knew full well that his husband was keeping something from him, and that that something was pretty damn huge. But he also knew that Braton must have his reasons for doing that, and besides, the last time he had gotten curious about what his husband got up to behind that study door, he had nearly gotten killed. Twice; once when he walked in on a particularly potent spell-casting ritual, and then later once Braton had sorted out the whole mess and had been annoyed with him. 

He smiled slightly at the memory of the make-up sex that had resulted, though. It had taken his husband a very long time to forgive him, and the memory alone still made him ache. Hell had nothing on a randy god making up for lost time, and a horny Braton was even more inventive than usual!

No, he was better off not knowing. He trusted his mate.

+~+~+

“Hullo, Gabriel.”

The young pygar jumped. He had been standing outside the garden of his uncle's cottage, wondering why Castiel was late back, when the man himself had suddenly appeared on the other side of the fence.

“You're as creepy as Cas when you do that!” he grumbled. “Sneaking up on people....”

“Says the pygar who's class trickster”, Braton finished easily. “Cas is off gathering herbs as part of his medical training, but he should be back before long. I know he wants to spend as much of this holiday as he can with you all. And to answer your next question, yes.”

Gabriel looked at him in surprise.

“I am keeping an eye on him, just in case”, the man said.

“Like you always do.” The words were out before the boy could stop himself.

“Ditto”, came the easy retort.

The two stared at each other. 

“Who are you?” Gabriel said slowly.

Braton gave him a warning look.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

There was something in his voice that made the young pygar shudder.

“No! I'd better go....”

“Stay a minute, Gabriel. Please.”

Coming from this man, that did not sound like a request. The young pygar leant on the fence, twisting his fingers nervously.

“Few things in this world are what they seem, if you think about it”, Braton said, almost absently. “Take you, for example. You take risks you shouldn't, but your word, though rarely given, is always good. You're stunningly good-looking, and you'll soon be eighteen and able to take a mate, but you dislike people in general, and your fellow pagari for the way they've treated Cas. The others are jealous of you and scared of you at one and the same time. To most people you're the class clown and yet the top student, the over-smart prankster who's fun to be around, but never someone you really get to know. Which is why you have only one real friend in the whole world.”

“Cas”, Gabriel murmured.

“You used to tell your parents you liked apples, then slipped them into Cas' packed lunch when he wasn't looking. At school you sat near him wherever you could, but never with him because he liked to study alone. You held him when he cried at the fact Roc never bothered to hide the fact he doesn't love him. You refused when your papa offered you a room of your own because you know Cas has the occasional nightmare, and you wanted to always be there to comfort him. And because of all this, Gabriel, I am going to tell you something.”

The pygar looked up. His uncle looked somehow different, no longer a sandy-haired middle-aged elf, but taller, younger and strangely darker. And for the first time ever Gabriel could see his wings - or at least their shadows – flickering black and white in some dimension almost out of sight. The young pygar shuddered. Somewhere at the edges of his understanding was an idea he did not really want to come any closer.

“I am following Cas because of his destiny”, Braton said. “He is fated to fall in love. A love the likes of which will either make or break him. He is going to have to face some difficult decisions in the times ahead, and you..... you have a role to play in all this. And Gabriel.....”

“Yeah?” 

“Always remember, I shall do everything in my power to protect Cas. But even I have my limitations.” He smiled. “Cas is heading back now. Why don't you go and meet him?”

Gabriel left quickly.

+~+~+

One and a quarter years earlier

Nhem was a fairly minor demigod who, it could be said, happened to be in the right place at the right time (although bearing in mind subsequent events, perhaps the use of the word 'right' was debatable). A great-grandson of Mors' son Skelt and thus a fifth-level demon, he had on his human death been placed in charge of the TSA, which he now ran with a cold, clinical inefficiency, even is his deputy Crowley freaked him out from time to time. It also meant he was in charge of record-keeping in the Netherworld, or at least he supervised the twelve demons who managed it between them.

Although it was rare, it was possible for demons to be promoted to at least semi-divine status, if they could achieve something notable. And for the last few years Nhem had been keeping a close eye on one Dean Winchester, a young human currently training to be a warrior at the famous Allonby Training School in Trivare. The man was righteous in a way that was extremely rare, and Nhem knew that such people were often destined for great things. Though he could not see the future, he had a feeling approaching near certainty that this man could make the world a better place in some way. The happier people on the planet were, the less they feared death.

And now this. Last week, Nhem had managed to eavesdrop into a conversation that Metatron, the god of scribes, had been having with someone, in which he had mentioned that the aforementioned warrior was destined to find a spell which would basically reset a person's status so that all past crimes would be wiped out, so they could avoid any punishment in Purgatory. His boss Mors would hate such a thing. So it was fast approaching the time to make sure that Dean Winchester had the sort of accident to which the word 'fatal' was more than applicable. And Nhem knew just the person to do that. The one currently occupying the warrior's old room at Longley Academy.

+~+~+

Dean was having to work hard just to stay in this fight. Tom was one of the very best of his fellow trainers, and several times he had got in sharp blows through the younger man’s defences. 

Rule Two, thought Dean. Few fights are truly fair. Use every weapon at your disposal.

He backed away from a brief moment, and used his breathing space to project the full force of his alpha scent across the ring. It made his beta opponent flinch for barely a second, but that was all Dean needed. He shot forward through the man's temporarily lowered defences and drove the man back out of the ring.

“Hey, no fair!” laughed his opponent, as Dean helped him up. “Scenting in the middle of a fight?”

“Mr Winchester is quite within his rights”, came the gravelled tones of their commanding officer, making everyone jump. The general still had the ability to move silently into exactly the area he was least expected. “Well done, both of you. Go shower, then resume your duties.”

Both men bowed to their commander, then went off to their respective huts. Dean found a visitor in his.

“Hi”, he smiled uncertainly. “You normally only show up when I’m in trouble.” 

“I thought I’d break the pattern”, the cowled figure said. “Although I do need something from you. A favour.”

“You need a favour from me?” Dean was astonished.

“Yes. I need a small piece of your aura.”

Dean looked hard at him. 

“You could have just taken it without me noticing”, he observed.

Even beneath the cowl, he knew the man was smiling.

“Do you really think so little of me that I would do something like that, Dean?”

“Sorry”, the warrior blushed. “Go ahead. I doubt I’ll miss it.”

“Thank you.”

He reached out and extracted – something. Though whatever he had taken was invisible, he produced a small green phial, which glowed slightly before he replaced it in his pocket. Dean had felt the slightest tingle, like static from a comb, but nothing more.

“Am I allowed to know what you need it for?” he asked tentatively.

“Not yet”, the monk said. “But you will get it back one day. Sort of. Are you happy here, Dean?”

Dean thought about it for a moment.

“I think I am! The job’s great, I’m not overworked, and Sammy’s doing great at the university. For once in my life, things are actually working out.”

“I am happy for you. I have another project on hand at the moment, but I am still keeping an eye on you.” He hesitated slightly before adding, “take care, Dean.”

He vanished. Dean frowned as he stared after him; somehow those last three words had made him feel uneasy for some reason. He was, of course, assuming the worst. 

He was also right.

+~+~+

Nhem grinned as he finished drawing the pentagram on the floor of the boy's room. Serve him right for working with Netherworld magic, even if it was for some stupid assignment or other. This, coupled with the drugged tea, would give him complete control over the brat's body, so he could make sure the righteous man met an unrighteous end. And that he, Nhem, got exactly what he deserved.

He was right. He was indeed about to get exactly what he deserved.

+~+~+

Dean had been sent on a scouting assignment to the Barbarian border, and was spending the night in the small town (all right, fair-sized village) of Anaximander. The tavern, the unoriginally named House of Bricks, was indeed the only brick building in the whole place, and small but fairly clean. Having set up the usual wards around the room, he collapsed onto the bed and was asleep in minutes.

+~+~+

It had been a hard day at the academy, and the field trip to Longley Wood had left Castiel more tired than usual. After his usual evening cup of tea - green chai, no milk, extra sugar – he had just managed to get his boots off before collapsing onto his bed and falling immediately into a deep sleep.

Castiel never normally dreamed much, but tonight, he did. He was getting up off his bed, getting dressed and moving over to his safe, where he kept his special knife. Removing it, he slipped it into his scabbard, and made his way to the centre of the room before concentrating hard. 

He was in another room, a small one, with a single person fast asleep on a single bed. Somehow, he knew he had to kill this man, even though he had no idea why. A small voice at the back of his mind was telling him not to, but he ignored it, and moved slowly forward, silently unsheathing his knife. 

He was almost at the bedside when a beam of moonlight suddenly shone through the small solitary window, illuminating the man's face. Castiel could not suppress a gasp. It was the man from the square!

The man stirred in his sleep, but did not awake. The pygar moved the hand holding the dagger slowly forward, but stopped when it was directly above his victim. Something was very wrong here.

It is said that, at moments of great stress, time seems to pass that much more slowly. For Castiel, the next five seconds lasted an eternity. He knew he had to plunge the dagger into the man, yet he simply could not. Then a strange man wearing a long grey cloak appeared directly the other side of the bed, glaring at him. The newcomer grabbed the hand holding the dagger and made to thrust it downwards into the sleeper, only for Castiel to resist. He raised his eyes, and shot a bolt of magic at the newcomer.

Who promptly exploded. Along with much of the room.

This, perhaps not surprisingly, served to waken the sleeping man, who stared up in shock at the pygar still wielding the knife directly over his chest. For what seemed like an eternity they stared at each other, the pygar's dagger still poised ready to strike. Then Castiel's wits finally came back from wherever they had been hiding out, and he teleported himself back to his room. A room that was not unoccupied; he baulked for a moment before recognizing his uncle, then sighed in relief. 

“What on Arcania happened?” the young pygar demanded.

“Mind-control spell”, Braton said easily. “Someone thought they'd use you to kill someone.”

Castiel looked at him incredulously. 

“And?” he prompted.

“You didn't do it”, Braton said. “You couldn't. And when the controller turned up and tried to force your hand, you turned on them.”

“What happened to them?”

“You kinda blasted them into a million pieces, then spread them around the galaxy”, Braton said. “Someone else who had to learn things the hard way. There's a lot of stupidity about, these days.”

Castiel stared at him in horror.

“Who was it?” he asked quietly.

“Nhem, a fifth-level demon”, Braton said. “He thought he could get promotion by disposing of someone that was a threat.”

“But why did he use me to do it?”

There was the briefest of pauses before Braton answered.

“His target was in this room when he attended the academy last year”, he said. “The important thing is that he failed, and he's paid the price.”

“You mean I destroyed a god?” Castiel said incredulously.

“Technically a demon, but yes, you did.”

“Er, how?”

“You always knew you were special, Cas”, Braton said. “You're more than just an average pygar. You should have realized that by now.”

Castiel thought for a moment.

“This is about my father, isn't it?” he said quietly.

Braton reddened.

“You know I can't tell you about that”, he said softly.

Castiel sighed. 

“I know”, he said heavily. “And the man tonight – it was the same one I met in the square, wasn't it? Dean.”

Braton nodded.

“Who exactly is he?” Castiel asked.

The reply shocked him to the core.

“Your future mate. And I think it's time you got some rest. It's been a long night.”

Castiel wanted to argue, but he did suddenly feel very tired. He sank down onto the bed, and was asleep in seconds. His father pulled the blanket up over him, and gently ruffled his untidy hair.

+~+~+

Dean stared around in complete bewilderment, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He quickly checked the room, but apart from a mysterious black stain on the floor on the opposite side of the bed from where his attacker had stood, there was no evidence of what had just happened or not happened. And although the figure had only been a shadow, Dean had the weird feeling that he somehow knew the guy.

What made it worse was that the wards on the room had not been tripped, which meant that someone or something very powerful was out to get him. The room was a wreck, and he was surprised that whatever had caused it had not harmed him too. He sighed and got up, then went out to report to General Allonby.

+~+~+

Metatron knew he only had minutes at best before the room's owner returned, or the gods themselves started taking an interest in events here. When even someone as low-ranked as a minor demon gets blasted out of existence, it still leaves a pretty significant dent in the magical aura, and Mors would very soon be sending people to look as to why he had just lost a family member.

“I'm in a place called Anaximander”, he told Gadreel over the ear-piece (which he still felt embarrassed about, even though he was invisible). “There's a tavern that's been partly destroyed, and the tracking spell suggests that the brat was inside it. He's gone now, though.”

“What's it called?” Gadreel asked.

“The House of Bricks”, Metatron sneered. “Local imagination run riot!”

There was a pointed silence down the line.

“Are you still there?” Metatron asked.

“Tell me”, Gadreel said carefully, “is there anything made of either straw and/or wood nearby?”

Metatron looked around.

“Yes”, he said. “There's a set of stables on one side, and a wooden shop on the other. Both badly damaged.”

“It's The Tale of the Three Little Pigs!” Gadreel said excitedly. “Can you get inside the brick building?”

“Yes. What am I looking for?”

“A wolf.”

“A what?” Metatron asked incredulously.

“In the story, three pigs build houses, one of straw, one of wood and one of bricks”, Gadreel explained. “A wolf comes along and blows down the first two houses, but can't do anything about the third because it's too strong.”

“Just not strong enough to withstand.....” Metatron's voice trailed off. He could not believe what he was seeing.

“Have you got it?” Gadreel asked anxiously.

“A door-jamb in the shape of a wolf!” Metatron chuckled. “And the base is a large letter 'Y'! Jackpot!”

He teleported himself back to his room and received his friend's congratulations before deciding to turn in for the night (gods did not need sleep like humans, but after any great effort, a period of recharge was beneficial), and thanking Gadreel again for his suggestion as to letting Nhem eavesdrop on a conversation of theirs. Before turning in however, he celebrated by advancing a white pawn deep into enemy territory on the chess block. The game was nearing completion, in both senses.

+~+~+

Crowley bowed in front of Mors. 

“Due to your predecessor's, ahem, 'unexpected departure'”, the god of death said, “you are to appointed new head of the TSA. I trust you will continue to uphold his fine record, and to ensure that everyone gets what is coming to them.”

“Indeed, sir”, Crowley smirked. “Nothing will be allowed to stand in the way of that!”

+~+~+

Exactly one year earlier

Braton crossed swiftly to his chair, pulling up a small table before sitting down. On its top was the triangular shield of the Fraternity, three white triangles surrounding one black one. He carefully reached into his cloak and started retrieving the figures he had taken from the games room, placing the first three in the outer white triangles.

The first figure was a tall young human wizard reading a book, done in grey stone. Braton shook his head slightly.

“Tall of body, short of giving,  
Think the world owes you a living,  
I'll teach you soon the way things be,  
And show you true Fraternity.”

The second figure was another human, almost as tall, but a warrior. It shone white in the afternoon sun. Braton smiled.

“Great of heart, you cannot see,  
That which binds can set you free.  
The love you crave, it can be real,  
If you can say just what you feel.”

The third figure was a humanoid with outstretched golden wings. It glowed with a rainbow of iridescence. Braton's smile widened.

“Fair protector, full of fun,  
Guarding well my special one.  
As in jests you take your pleasure,  
Love and hate shall be your measure.”

Braton hesitated before drawing out the final figure. It was another winged humanoid, but much smaller, jet black in colour, and curled up inside its folded wings as if it were trying to be as small as possible. He held it reverently for a moment, gently kissed it, then placed it carefully in the black centre triangle. The pull between it and the second figure was palpable. Braton's voice trembled as he spoke.

“'Tis you I guard with my own life,  
Through pain and torment, fear and strife,  
My son, my own, my love so true,  
Always I shall watch over you.”

He passed his hand over the four figures, and the emblem beneath them glowed in response. The crisis was approaching; a crisis he'd helped engender. He was risking everything.

He was afraid.


	10. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam are sent to Lazar's Bridge, where one of them will meet his destiny.

Four weeks earlier 

It was in the nature of the Oxanian Empire, as with all megalithic organizations, that any embarrassing things done by people in positions of authority was, of course, immediately covered up. And for the son of a member of the Council of Generals, they would go to great lengths to ensure that said cover-up was thorough. However, the fact that Acting Colonel Barovus was severely injured by a fall from a third-storey whore house balcony was a bit difficult to explain away, particularly as his fall was only broken by a cart belonging to the town governor, to which he did considerable damage. The fact his fall was broken by the contents of the cart may have been a redeeming factor, had not said contents been a pile of manure (which, given the circumstances, proved horribly appropriate!). It also didn't help that he was being chased at the time by an angry alpha who had discovered the acting colonel coming on to his mate. Plus the fact that said angry alpha just happened to own the local newspaper in Port Barbary. 

What sealed Barovus' fate, however, was when the owner of the whore house not only sued him for property damage, but told the offended alpha about the soldier's 'preferences'. It occupied pages one through five of the evening paper, which had to be reprinted due to popular demand. The Council was far from pleased, and not because they had to sack him – this was common enough, and they could reinstate him once the fuss had died down – but because he had been one of only two candidates for the Esire post, and now they had to choose the other guy, one they had specifically wanted not to have to appoint. The candidate recommended by that ultimate in loose cannons, Mark Allonby. A hitherto unknown person called Dean Winchester.

+~+~+

Three weeks earlier 

Dean was having that weird dream again, the one that had been recurring for several weeks now. If dreams were meant to mean something, then this one was just weird, because nothing actually happened. It was just him out for a run, jogging along on a sunny day. Dramatic content, zip.

Except tonight, something did happen. As he was running, he became aware of a shadow passing over him, and looked up to get the shock of his life. A dark-winged pygar flying overhead, soaring just a few yards above him. Dean envied him that freedom, one he would never have. 

Then the pygar suddenly swept in to land just in front of him, causing Dean to pull up sharply. And by the gods, he was beautiful! Ruffled bed hair, a hawkish, intelligent face, and those eyes! A pair of impossibly blue orbs that seemed to bore into Dean's very soul, staring at him accusingly. Dean was sure that he had seen that face somewhere before, but his mind just could not fix on where. And then the guy spoke:

“You did not love me, Dean.”

His voice was strangely deep for someone so young, as if it had been broken through alcohol or overuse. He stared at Dean for just a few seconds before launching himself skywards, flying straight ahead as if he could not wait to put as much distance between the two of them as possible. Dean tried to run after him, but there was no way he could hope to keep up. And then he fell, and woke to the realization that he had rolled right out of bed. He was sweating and shaking, and worst of all, he could remember every single detail about the dream, right down to the terrible pain behind those six chilling words.

He got back into bed, but slept little that night.

+~+~+

Dean was still feeling more than a little out of sorts the following morning, when he got a summons to attend an urgent meeting with the general. He really hoped it wasn't anything that would wreck his for once tolerable life.

He really should have known better.

“Sit down, Dean”, the general said, his face impassive. “I have some news that is, for you, both good and bad.”

Dean immediately feared the worst. Fortunately the general was there ahead of him, as usual.

“Sam is fine”, he said reassuringly. “And doing very well, I hear.”

Dean felt proud at that, but wondered what was to come.

“Your time here is at an end”, the general said carefully.

“But sir…”

Allonby Looked at him. Dean shut up at once.

“Sorry, sir.”

“That's quite all right. I am ordered to tell you that you are to appointed as the new commanding officer to the barracks at Esire on the south coast, to start there in eight weeks' time when Colonel Octavius leaves. Naturally you are promoted to colonel with immediate effect.”

Dean was stunned.

“Thank you, sir. That's a big step up.”

“If I didn't think you capable, I'd agree”, the general said airily. “I did recommend you, although I expected the other candidate to get the job before.... well, his unfortunate 'accident'.”

Dean grinned. Trivare lay on the road between Port Barbary and the capital, so he'd heard pretty quickly about the unfortunate acting colonel and the whore house. And the pile of..... manure.

“As you know, somewhere as small as Esire doesn’t have its own university”, the general went on. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t want Sam anywhere near Vacore, with that place's reputation.” Dean shuddered. “So I’ve arranged for him to be transferred to Lazar’s Bridge, the capital of Transoxania, about a day's travel from your new base. Their university is new and small, but highly recommended. Sam will keep all his credit for his coursework so far, and only has to do a three-week refresher course before starting. I've also arranged for him to live at the barracks until he can find his own place. It is quite convenient in a way, because you yourself have to go there too.”

“Sir?”

The general smiled.

“I’ve trained you as far as I can in the military side of things, Dean, but having to liaise with politicians who you’d cross the street to avoid is another game entirely, and one I am so happy not to have to do. I’m sending you to one of my old boys, Throm Barclay, governor-general of Transoxania. He’s done wonders with what was once the basket-case amongst imperial provinces. You will shadow him and his staff for the intervening time before you head south.”

“When do we leave, sir?”

“Tonight.”

“Travelling overnight?” Dean was surprised.

The general hesitated.

“Not exactly.”

The Allonby training had already been ringing a persistent alarm bell in the back of Dean’s mind, and it now reached a full tocsin. His stomach sank.

“Teleportation?” he gasped, suddenly feeling very queasy. Oh hell, a whole week of limited bodily functions to look forward to. Euw!

The general stood up. 

“You have just under two hours to report to the Fraternity House in town.” He hesitated. “Dean…”

“Yes, sir?

“Stay safe, colonel. I know you will always be a credit to me”.

He shook Dean’s hand (something Dean knew was exceedingly rare), then they saluted each other and Dean left, wondering how he was going to break the news to his brother.

Behind him, the general sighed, and went to get himself a drink from his cabinet. Then he stopped. Inside it was a large bottle of the very best Dodecanian brandy, with a note attached to it. It read 'Thanks. I'll keep an eye on him. B.'

You do that, boy, thought the general, pouring himself a rare large one. You just do that.

+~+~+

The Trivare Fraternity House was typical of its kind, a small unobtrusive building, with the four-triangled sign over the door the only real indication of its purpose. A cowled monk greeted them, and Dean somehow sensed that this might just be his monk, even though they were in a different hemisphere. And for some reason, that thought made him feel uneasy. 

They were led through to a small room at the back, and they entered to find a tall man sat at the table.

Okay....

Dean's army training had prepared him to cope with most surprises, but finding a demigod sat in the room with you, even if it was the genial Andros Feher, was not on the list. Nor did Andros look particularly happy, which was unusual from what Dean knew of him. Sam drew instinctively closer to his brother. 

“Um, why are we here, please?” Dean ventured.

The other monk drew back his cowl, and Dean recognized Braton Stone. In itself that was not surprising, given Andros' presence. But when their guide spoke, Dean knew for sure who had been watching over him all this time. And strangely, Braton was looking not at him, but at his brother. It was not a pleasant look, either.

“Hullo, Dean. Sam. It's time to meet your destinies.”

+~+~+

“I think it’s best if we took you into the other room”, Andros said gravely. “We’ll be able to explain things better there.” 

He looked across at Braton as if expecting him to take up the conversation, but his husband merely shook his head. Andros hesitated slightly, before leading the way out through a door both brothers were sure hadn’t been there when they arrived. Braton followed them, his silence increasingly ominous..

The next room was amazing. Huge in itself, it was dominated by a giant games table on which was a map of Arcania, half of which was in darkness. A living map, with clouds, mountain ranges, and seas lapping at the edges of the four continents. Dean's eyes flew to his home, the island of Oakland, and he could just make out his home town at the end of Itton Bay. One odd thing stood out; an intense white light beam, shining up from the middle of Oxania. 

We're in Fraternity Castle, Dean thought. Awesome! And I didn't even throw up after the teleport!

“What’s that?” asked Sam, pointing at the light beam.

“The reason you’re here”, said Andros. “He’s someone who is about to enter your life, and be changed by his interactions with one of you.”

“Which one?” Dean asked instinctively.

Braton coughed meaningfully. There was a soft thud from behind them and they all turned to find the brothers' luggage, which they had left in the front room of the House, had materialized in the room. Dean went pale, his question forgotten.

“Uh, Dean?” said Sam.

“What?”

“Isn’t that, like, the jumper I got you?”

A garish orange and black sleeve was protruding from one of the cases. It had the sort of pattern that made you glad you could see only the sleeve, and had time to don protective eye-wear before having to face the rest of it. Strong protective eye-wear.

“Er, yeah.”

“Why did you pack that?”

“Because you gave it him for his birthday, you idiot!” Braton said icily.

The room suddenly felt cold. Sam moved in closer to his brother.

“I think it’s time you two went to bed”, said Andros firmly. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and we want you well rested.” 

He propelled them firmly out of the room, getting as much space between them and his visibly angry husband as possible.

+~+~+

“Dean?”

“Asleep. Go away.”

“Why did you pack that jumper? It's too small for you, now.”

Dean groaned. He knew he wasn’t going to get any peace when his brother used that wheedling voice of his. Sighing, he turned to face him across the darkness.

“You remember your first job at Delaware's?”

“Yeah?”

“You spent some of the first wages you ever got on my birthday present. Yeah, it’s hideous – but, well, it was from you. That… it kind of meant a lot to me.”

“Oh”.

“Mushy moment over, right?”

“Sure. Sorry, Dean.

“What for?”

“Just.… goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Sammy.”

+~+~+

“I’ve sorted them fresh clothes for tomorrow”, Braton said. “I’ve cleaned their old ones, and I'll pack them in the morning.

Andros looked up from the bed, but didn’t bother to ask how his husband knew what he’d been about to say. Sometimes it was as if Braton was the grandson of a time god, not him.

“I thought you wanted me to do it?” he said, as Braton got into bed.

“You’d have used the door”.

“Like normal people.”

“I teleported in. That way I didn’t wake them.”

“Hey! I can be silent when I want to!”

“I know”, Braton grinned. “But Dean always repositions his bed right behind the door when sleeping anywhere strange, so he can protect Sam. I moved the bed back once I was in.”

“Bray, he’s in Fraternity Castle! Is there anywhere safer?”

“You can’t change the habits of a lifetime”, smiled his husband. “It’s rather endearing. Besides, I wanted to make sure he sleeps in for a bit tomorrow. He’s always stressing over that brother of his.”

“He must really love Sam.”

“I'm rather afraid he does.”

Andros looked at him uncertainly. Braton's tone was... strange.

“Love is a terrible thing, And. The most powerful force in the universe.” Then he smiled again. “But I will always love you. No matter what.”

He turned over and slept, leaving his husband frowning.

No matter what? 

+~+~+

Sam’s training as a warlock meant he knew full well the two most important rules about potentially dangerous situations, the sort where your magical senses warn you beforehand not to get involved. These were 1) listen to your magical senses and don’t get involved, and 2) if you must get involved, don’t say or do anything stupid. 

One of the smartest trainee wizards of his generation was about to break both those rules with the most powerful being on the planet. See relevant entry in Galactipedia under ‘dumb things you may not live to regret doing’. 

Sam had woken early, and spent a few minutes guiltily watching his brother sleep. Though his conscience never normally troubled him, he could not help but feel that, just perhaps, he had not always treated his older brother as well as he might have. Dean looked so different at rest, younger with all his worry lines eased out. Sam was surprised that the bed seemed to have been moved away from the door, but guessed his brother must have done it for some reason. 

Sam was many things, one of which including being not blind. He knew full well about his brother's amulet, and that the symbol on it was that of the Fraternity. He had long ago reasoned that this meant his brother was being protected in some way, a thought which made him uneasy. Even gods like Braton Stone didn't so things without a reason. And the way that particular god had been looking at him last night had been far from friendly. Then there was the matter of the jumper....

He came downstairs to find Braton packing their now-cleaned clothes from the day before.

“And is just getting breakfast ready.”, the god said quietly.

Sam felt nervous for some reason.

“Oh”, he muttered. “Good.”

“Did you sleep well?” Braton asked.

“Yeah, thanks”. 

A truly smart person would have left it there. Sam, unfortunately, did not.

“The jumper”, he ventured. “Was that you?”

“It was”, said Braton, closing the case. “You bought it for Dean's birthday.”

“Yeah, I did.”

What happened next came as something of a surprise, as it involved Braton taking less than a fraction of a second to turn, grab Sam one-handed by the throat, and push him bodily against the nearest wall. His eyes, once the young man had unscrambled his brain enough to regain the power of vision, were blazing.

“You bastard!” hissed the god. “I know exactly what you did, so don’t you dare lie to me! You spent that money on yourself, despite the fact Dean needed it to make ends meet! You forgot your own brother's birthday – too busy thinking of yourself, as usual – and when you remembered it on the actual day, you went and wrapped that monstrosity and pretended you’d got it for him. And he was so pleased that, for once in that miserable excuse of a life, he thought you’d actually shown the tiniest bit of gratitude, he kept it, despite the fact it’s bloody appalling! I've destroyed people for less than that, Samuel John Winchester, and it's only the fact that your Dean's brother that's stopping me from giving you exactly what you deserve!”

Sam gasped for air.

“Do you even know what that man has done for you?” Braton roared, his breath hot in the young warlock's face. “Do you even care? Worked every waking hour for you, sold his body down the whore house for you, protected you from the bullies, clothed you, cooked for you, cleaned up after you, helped you with your school work, put up with a whiny, ungrateful snotty-nosed oik of a teenager who he’d have had every right to walk out on? And ‘I’ve already eaten’? He couldn’t afford to feed both of you half the time, so he went without, but never you, oh no! Why do you think Bobby had you both round to his house so often in Longley? He knew that was the only way to make sure Dean was eating properly! Your brother's given everything for you, and all you could manage in return was an exercise in bloody bad taste!”

Sam whimpered in sheer terror. The warlock could feel the god's magic crackling around them both, his skin almost burning at its closeness. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Andros had appeared in the doorway, but the tall demigod made no move to come any closer. 

“I’m sorry….” Sam began.

“Don't even try it!” Braton snapped angrily. “You’ve had everything presented to you on a plate, and you’re still an ungrateful bitch. You’re meant to be the one who learns magic so you can protect that wonderful human being to whom, the Fates only know how, you are related. You so don't deserve him. The day may come that he's not strong enough to fight off the things that come at him, but you’re probably still going to be sat at the breakfast table, whining that he'd gone and bought you the wrong type of fruit. You’re… I’ve got to get out; you’re making me sick!”

He threw the young man to the floor, exploded a magical flare directly over him and stormed from the room. A stunned (and slightly scorched) Sam found himself being helped up by Andros, who cleaned him up with a pass of his giant hand.

“He hates me!” Sam muttered.

“Yes.”

Sam stared at the demigod.

“But why?” he asked.

“Think about it, Sam. You're supposed to be the clever one.”

“Eh?”

Andros sighed.

“Bray's always known there were forces out there who’d go to any lengths to destroy him”, he explained patiently. “And the easiest way to do that was through me. It was only after Troezen that they backed off, and even then, my time as a human warrior meant there were all sorts of things that could harm or kill me. Bray watched over me me like Dean's always done you, and if I'd have treated him like you did your own blood, he'd have had every right to walk out on me.”

“Troezen?” Sam asked. “Who's he?”

“Trojan's son, god of weapons”, Andros said softly. “Whilst I was still human, there was a rumour that went round – a false one – that Bray was considering giving me his job. Troezen removed all the magic from my weapons before a battle with a vampire one day, and I nearly got killed. Bray saved me, then went after him and destroyed him. Literally, right there in front of the other gods. There's still a gap in the Hall of the Gods where his statue once stood; Bray demanded it stay there as a reminder to the other gods. He's spent all the time we've been together doing everything in his power to protect me, then he sees someone as ungrateful as you who just expects that sort of treatment as of right. And you wonder why that makes him mad? Dean's been father, papa and brother to you, more even than Bray was to me, and what have you done in return? Nothing but a hideous jumper!”

Sam hung his head in shame. It was perhaps typical of the way his day was going that Dean chose this moment to enter the room.

“Hey bitch, what's...?”

He didn’t get any further. Sam promptly threw himself at his elder brother, crying incoherent apologies and hugging him tight. Dean looked at Andros in complete bafflement, and the demigod only narrowly managed to suppress a smile. If Sam had learnt his lesson, then all well and good.

+~+~+

Both Winchesters were rather more composed later, when they met Andros prior to leaving. There was no sign of Braton, for which Sam at least was grateful. The demigod said his goodbyes and wished them well, then they stepped through the portal to Lazar's Bridge and disappeared. 

Or rather, Sam disappeared. Dean merely came out the other side of the portal, still in the room.

“Sammy!” he gasped, looking around the room in shock.

“Do him good to be without you for a couple of minutes.” Braton was standing in front of him, his arms folded.

“That was cruel”, said Andros reprovingly.

“Your point being?”

“Bray!”

“Dean, I need to speak with you alone. Do you mind, And?”

His husband huffed, but left the room.

“Yes?” asked Dean.

Braton swallowed. He seemed strangely nervous.

“This is important, Dean. Really important.” He hesitated, swallowed again, then ploughed on. “There will come a time in your life, not far into the future, when you need serious help. Even if you call, I shall be unable to help you directly at that time. You'll know that when the time comes. So I am going to tell you something now, and whatever else happens, you must remember.”

Dean suddenly felt as nervous as the god looked.

“Go on”, he said.

“First, look down.”

Dean looked at him expectantly, but it seemed that was it. Still, this was a god. There had to be a reason for him to say that. He made a mental note to write it down the minute he reached the planet again. 

Braton spoke again.

“I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, and for everything you’ve still got to face.” He smiled softly. “ You are a righteous man, Dean Winchester. Go now, and good luck.”

Dean blushed at the praise.

“Thanks. Um, Bray?”

The god raised his eyebrows. Dean went pale.

“Uh, I meant Braton. Sorry!”

Braton chuckled.

“Given the circumstances, you may call me Bray. Yes?”

“The amulet. It was you looking out for me all this time, wasn't it?”

Braton looked at him thoughtfully.

“Yes. I am protecting you, Dean, and I can protect Sam if you ask. Don't ask me why; that's just the way things are. Go and rejoin your brother, now.” He paused before adding almost sadly, “I shall see you again.... in the garden.”

+~+~+

“You like Dean?”

Braton weighed the question before answering.

“Yes”, he said at last. “And I'm sorry for him. Even with Sam put right, his life still sucks. And it's going to get much worse before it can get better. If it does.” 

He paused for a moment. 

“I shall do what I can for him. He is a good man. He can't help the way he is.” He paused before adding, “we all do things we regret, one time or another.”

Andros tensed. 

“You included?” he said edgily.

Braton stared pointedly at him.

“Yes. That is one reason I am sorry for Dean. Because I know what lies in store for him.”

For all of us, he thought bitterly, as Andros pulled him closer. And I would give almost anything to avoid it.

+~+~+

Castiel had returned home after graduating from the Longley Academy (with honours) to find things had not gone well in his absence. His father and papa had, as he had feared, finally split up, the former having moved to Redwood and taken Rafe with him. His papa was devastated, and Castiel uttered a silent prayer that their bond had been a Level One, the only type which an abandoned omega like Larne would survive the breaking of. Level Two splits always ended in the death of the abandoned omega, unless they had children to raise, and even then they would hold on only long enough to guide their children to adulthood before quietly slipping away. There was supposed to be a Level Three bond, although Castiel had never known anyone lucky (or perhaps unlucky) enough to have one of those since Pygar, the fonder of their race. He shuddered to think what the consequences might be for breaking that sort of union.

“They aren't even talking to each other”, Gabriel whispered, once the two were in their room. “Father picked up some very nasty thing that made him limp a lot recently....”

“Can he not use a walking-stick?” Castiel asked, curiously.

Gabriel promptly fell off the bed with laughter.

“Don't ever change, bro!” he wheezed eventually. “I love you so much! I meant limp as in certain areas where an alpha really doesn't want to be limp!”

Castiel looked confused for another moment, then reddened abruptly as he got it, causing his brother to burst into another fit of giggles. He was still chuckling when they heard their papa call them downstairs. The boys tumbled into the front room, but stopped short when they saw who was also there.

“Hello, Uncle Luri”, they chorused. 

The warlock smiled at them, but they could both see it was a strained smile.

“What's up?” Gabriel asked worriedly. 

Braton looked at Castiel.

“You remember I once talked to both about your destinies?” he said slowly.

Castiel nodded. 

“Well”, Braton went on, “it is time to meet them. Both of you.”

“What about papa?” Castiel asked at once.

“I'm going to Yellowbury, to live near Mike and Luke”, Larne smiled. “They've got me a job in the library there. We're selling this house, and the six of us will split the proceeds after I pay for my new house.”

“Six?” Gabriel asked sharply.

“Roc may have signed the house over to me”, Larne explained, “but I want each of you to have something. Rafe included.”

“He doesn't deserve a single penny!” Gabriel growled. 

“That is my decision”, Larne said firmly. He looked pointedly at their visitor before adding, “and no turning Roc into a toad again!”

“That was only an illusion!” Braton pouted.

Larne looked pointedly at him. The god shrugged.

“All right, a good one. But the bad breath does fade. Given a decade or so.”

Castiel and Gabriel both chuckled, and Larne shook his head at them all. 

“Where are we going?” Castiel asked.

“We'll go with your father to Yellowbury first”, Braton said, “then we're headed off to a town called Lazar's Bridge in Transoxania.”

“Another continent?” Castiel asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes”, Braton said. He looked fondly at the two boys, and smiled. “Your destiny awaits you there.”


	11. 'Tis The Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel discovers that some gods have their own interpretations of 'what's in your best interests'.

The present

Dean sighed heavily. Contrary to what many people thought about him, he did actually believe that goods things happened. He just also knew for a fact that where he was concerned, something bad was bound to happen pretty soon afterwards to balance it out.

Sam was busy with his pre-course reading prior to starting at Transoxania University, and Governor-General Barclay himself, though frankly terrifying, had been welcoming enough. He had been somewhat preoccupied as his partner, Valerian, had just announced he was pregnant (with their sixteenth child, although Dean later found out Braton had got the two together, which explained things somewhat), and Dean had been entrusted to the care of his second-in-command, Sergeant Gavriil Sverenskiiyard. Gav was great fun, and a good teacher. Once more, everything in Dean’s life looked as if it might just turn out not too bad.

Except the first week had also brought one Bartholomew Lirius. The Imperial 'advisor'. 

Dean's first lesson on arrival had been a crash history course, which had helped explain why things were they way they were, as well as giving him an appreciation of just what General Barclay had achieved here. Up to a century or so ago, the Emperors in Vacore had ruled over virtually the whole continent, although their hold over the five easternmost provinces had always been tenuous, not helped by the fact that the province of Transoxania which connected them to the rest of the empire was in a bottleneck between two large elven forests to the north and south. All would have been well had it not been for the efforts of a run of poor emperors, who handled the eastern provinces so badly that they declared independence as the Curcurrian Confederacy, and started raiding into Transoxania. The result was that the eastern half of the beleaguered province, which was bisected by the River Laze, very quickly became a wasteland. 

That was, until Throm Barclay had arrived. At that point the Curcurrians had even occupied the southernmost town in the province, Helmsport; he promptly threw them out of there, established a chain of forts to protect the eastern half of his new province, and fomented unrest in western Curcurria, leading the confederate armies to be kept busy dealing with their own problems rather than sticking their noses over the border. And after one spectacular raid on the Curcurrian capital, Raven (the Curcurrians learning the hard way that Throm had a decent naval force at his disposal), a ceasefire had been agreed, which had led eventually to a permanent peace. 

However, Bartholomew. As a matter of course, the Empire posted 'advisors' (i.e. spies) on all its local military commanders, and Throm's success had made him popular across the Empire, which made the Council of Generals uneasy. Dean had taken a dislike to the tall, anaemic-looking Lirius the minute he had met him, and he was certain that that dislike was returned in spades. Besides, the guy was a wizard, which meant he was naturally untrustworthy. All magical folk were.

There was a pointed mental cough at the back of Dean's mind.

Except Braton Stone, he mentally corrected. Sorry.

+~+~+

Just over a week after his arrival, Dean's life was further complicated by the incident at the Frat House. 

Dean knew enough about gods to reckon that Braton might expect some payback for all his efforts with him and Sammy, so he made a point, as soon as they were settled in, of taking his first week’s wages (generously advanced by Throm; top military personnel were usually paid monthly) down to the Fraternity House as an offering. The brothers there thanked him, and everything was going great. Until he left. 

Two elves were just getting off a cart, clearly intending to stay at the House. Both were barely of age; one of them had strawberry blond hair and a worried expression as he assisted the other, who was so wrapped up in some sort of blanket contraption that his appearance was anyone’s guess. They started up the path to the House just as Dean was coming down it, and he stood to one side to let them pass. As they did, they both glanced across at him.

Their reactions were startling. The blond guy looked absolutely furious, as if he would dearly have liked to pummel Dean into the ground. The younger one’s reaction was even stranger. Dean just had time to catch a glimpse of a pair of startlingly blue eyes before the boy staggered back from the pathway, and would have fallen into a flowerbed had his partner not caught him. The older guy gave Dean another look of undiluted fury before helping his companion into the House.

But what made the encounter even stranger was that, apart from the giant black wings, this was undoubtedly the man from Dean's nightmare. The one who had stared at him through those ice-blue eyes, and told him in that impossibly gravelled voice, 'you did not love me, Dean'....

+~+~+

“Gabe, it's him!”

“I know, Cas. I know.”

“Here!”

“You’re safe in the House, Cas. I’ll protect you.”

Gabriel hugged his brother tightly. Castiel was still shuddering.

“But, Gabe... it's Dean!”

“Dean who?” Gabriel asked, puzzled.

“Dean Winchester. He's my soul mate!”

Gabriel started.

“What?”

“I felt it when he was standing there. He's the guy I met in Oakland that time, and who I nearly killed when that demon possessed me. He's the one, I'm sure!”

“That's impossible! 

“I know I'm right!”

“'Kay. Well, at least you're in the right place to find someone who can explain all this!”

+~+~+

“Hullo, Cas.”

The brother kneeling at the altar was looking straight at him. Except even though he had never seen him before, Castiel somehow just knew. That and the fact that every other god either appeared in a blaze of glory, or worse, turned up trying and failing spectacularly badly to look normal. Braton Stone was just.... Braton Stone.

“Oh. Um, hullo, Braton.”

The god hesitated.

“You've come for answers, Cas, and I have few to give you”, he said. “Luri was right about Dean; he is the man you're destined to be with. Only....” 

He stopped. 

He looks unhappy, Castiel thought. Why?

“Only what?” he asked.

“It will not be easy. Much will happen before he comes to understand. You have a hard time ahead of you. I am sorry.”

He reached out and ran a finger along Castiel's jaw, and smiled weakly. 

“Be strong, my boy”, he whispered.

And he was gone.

+~+~+

Gabriel was determined to know everything he could about the man who seemed destined to be with his kid brother, and he soon found out pretty much everything there was to know about Dean Winchester. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the pygar started doing a spell refresher course at the University, and found Green Eyes had a brother. A younger version of the species who seemed to have just finished a rather heavy session on the rack, as he towered over just about everyone, despite being barely eighteen.

What made matters even worse was that Version 1.1, which apparently went under the name of Samuel, was not only as popular as Gabriel with his classmates, he was also pretty damn clever. Gabriel had always held the twin positions of top student (well, after his kid brother, annoyingly) and class clown unchallenged back in Kyronia, whilst making only minimum effort. Now the Giraffe, as he rather unkindly called Sam, was giving him more than a run for his money. It was bloody annoying!

Then there was Castiel, who seemed totally resigned to whatever crap the Fates were going to throw at him. His brother reminded Gabriel of one of those prisoners sentenced to death, who just sit there and quietly await their end. That, plus the fact that Dean sometimes took the regular camp offering to the House, meant that the golden-eyed pygar's increasingly frayed patience was dangerously near breaking-point. 

It was somewhat unfortunate, therefore, that it was Sam Winchester who was the one to give it that final tug. 

+~+~+

The Governor-General had taken Dean on a reconnaissance mission out to Cumbleside, a small fort on the Curcurrian border, and they were to be away all day. When Sergeant Gav said he had to take the offering over to the Fraternity House, Sam leapt at the chance to do a bit of exploring. He was also curious to find out a bit about where his loud and unfriendly campus rival stayed.

He disliked Gabriel intensely, he really did. But last week their teacher Doctor Sarsen, a man with a sadistic streak wider than Gabriel's (some achievement, in Sam's book) had made the two of them work on a protect together, and they had developed a sort of grudging toleration for each other. Gabriel was still the top student in class, but Sam was closing the gap, and had been only two points behind him on the last test. If the elf hadn't been such an arrogant, cocky, overbearing, pint-sized fool, Sam might almost have liked the golden-eyed omega. 

He preferred not to think about exactly when or why he had noticed the colour of Gabriel's eyes.

He safely delivered the offering, and was leaving the House when he heard the music, coming from a small walled garden to his right. Fortunately his height worked to his advantage, as he was able to peer over the top of the wall to see who was singing a hauntingly beautiful song. It was a young elf with incredibly messy dark hair and striking blue eyes, playing a guitar. Gabriel was sitting at his feet, looking up at him with affection and… something else. Pain? 

“I wish you’d fight it, Cas”, he said quietly.

The young elf went on with his music. The look on Gabriel's face made Sam feel strange inside. What was happening here? 

“He doesn’t have to hurt you. I mean, you could always… go somewhere else.” 

The other elf smiled, but carried on playing.

“I could go with you?”

The elf stopped and laid down his guitar, then fondly toyed with Gabriel’s unruly hair, which was almost as long as Sam's. His blue eyes shone with love, as did Gabriel's golden ones. Sam felt a curious pain as he watched, and realized to his horror it was jealousy. How could Gabriel of all people get someone like that?

“It’s my destiny, Gabe”, the elf said, sadly. “I can’t fight it. So what if I am hurt? I am nothing really.”

Gabriel leapt to his feet and pulled the other elf into his arms.

“Never say that!” he almost cried. “I can't lose you now! I love you! You are worth more to me than….”

Quite what he was worth more than would never be known, for at that moment Gabriel chanced to look up and see his classmate over the wall. Before he could even think about casting any defensive spells, Sam once more found himself pinned to a wall, another strong arm at his throat. Despite the fact that he was at least half a foot shorter than the younger Winchester, the elf's strength was formidable.

“Spying! You bastard!”

“I just wondered who was singing!” Sam gasped. 

“Liar!”

“Please put him down, Gabe”, the younger man said, suddenly appearing beside them. He stared at Sam for a moment with his head titled to one side, as if trying to recall his face.

“The brother, Cas!” Gabriel growled.

“Oh, Samuel.” He reached out and gently removed Gabriel’s hand from Sam’s neck. “What are you doing here?”

“I… just wanted to know who was singing”, Sam gasped, as air started to circulate into his lungs again. “It was so beautiful. And so sad.”

Gabriel hissed at this, and Sam thought he sounded rather like a wild animal. A wild animal who had apparently got from one side of a wall to the other in a fraction of a second. It was an unpleasant thought.

“I must go”, 'Cas' said. “Tom has promised to teach me more about the local herbs, and I must keep my medical knowledge up-to-date. I'm sure my brother has no objection to your leaving, Mr. Winchester.”

Brother? 

Gabriel stepped back half a pace, still glaring at his classmate. Sam took the hint and fled. But he was intrigued. Snarky, unpleasant, bitter and twisted Gabriel actually caring for someone, even if it was a family member? Boy, the gods sure did move in some mysterious ways. And he most definitely did not feel relief at discovering the man Gabriel had stared at so lovingly was a family member. He really didn't.

Big river in Spuria, a voice sniggered quietly at the back of his mind. He tried to ignore it.

+~+~+

The next day, Gabriel returned from his classes in a less than happy mood.

“Doctor Sarsen hates me!”

Castiel looked up from his book in surprise, as his brother flopped down onto the bench beside him.

“Why?” he asked.

“He's gone and paired me up with the Giraffe again! He's doing it just to annoy me!”

“Seems to be working”, Castiel observed.

Gabriel glared at his brother. 

“And what do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“You talk about him every day when you come in”, Castiel said dryly. “Sam this and Sam that. Are you sure it's hate you really feel for him, Gabe? Or something else, maybe?”

His brother reddened.

“Don't be ridiculous!” he snapped. “ I'd bend over backwards if I had any feelings for that useless lump.” He saw his brother's smirk. “I didn't mean it like that!”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Shut up!”

+~+~+

Later that week Sam had a bad cold, and was sent home from the university. 

By the following day he'd added a temperature. Dean was anxious, particularly as the camp medic, Ruaris, said it was Oxanian Swamp Fever.

“Horrible, but hardly ever fatal at his age” he said. “Keep him isolated and as cool as possible, give him lots of liquids, and in two weeks it should be gone.”

Dean wasn’t so sure. He cradled Sam to him, cursing when there was a knock at the door. Fortunately Marty, Gav’s eldest son, yelled he’d get it, and Dean heard him talking to someone in the outer room. Then the door opened.

Okay, things could get worse. Dean really shouldn't have been surprised.

It was the strawberry blond from the Fraternity House. And he was still looking at Dean as if he’d like to murder him. Okay, so quite a few people in his life had done that, but up till now they’d all had an obvious reason, either professionally or due to some relationship going south. This guy – what was with him?

The newcomer spoke, and his voice was strangely deep for one so young.

“I’m Gabriel Novak. Samuel attends university with me. They asked me to bring his books, and some get well cards.”

Samuel. Not Sam or Sammy. So this guy hates both Winchesters. Wonderful.

“And we were supposed to be working on a protect together”, Gabriel went on, seeming strangely nervous. “Our teacher said to tell him we've got at least a week's extension; longer if his illness is very bad.”

“Thank you for letting him know”, said Dean, suddenly feeling tired. “Just leave the stuff on the chair.”

There was a note of dismissal in his voice, but Gabriel stayed put, staring at the prone figure in Dean’s arms.

“I… I have a younger brother.”

Must be the one with the blue eyes, Dean thought. Is this guy trying to freak me out, or something?

“He’s a doctor. I… could ask him to come and take a look, if you like.”

Dean looked up, and a moment of understanding passed between the two men. 

“You ever come close to losing your brother?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah. It's horrible!”

“It’s like having part of you dying, and not being able to stop it.” Dean hugged Sam’s sweating form even closer. “I hate it!”

Gabriel didn’t seem to know what to say. He put the books on the chair and turned to go.

“I’ll ask Cas to come and see him”, he promised as he left.

+~+~+

Dean was feeling pretty warm himself when there was another knock at the door. He glanced at the clock and knew that Marty was still out – secretly dating Throm's son Sergei, except that both sets of parents knew - whilst Gav's mate Martin wasn’t back yet. He would have to leave Sam and answer it himself. Sighing, he made his brother as comfortable as he could and went to open the door. 

Outside stood what looked like a cross between an accountant caught in a passing tornado, and a tramp. He was studying the Sverenskiiyard doormat as if he had never seen one before. 

“Yes?” Dean asked politely, because even someone as weird-looking as this guy deserved good manners.

The man looked up, and Dean had to fight the urge to step backwards in shock. Those blue eyes again. He hadn't forgotten them from the last encounter, and damn if they weren’t even brighter than he remembered.

The stranger hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, getting way too close. Never mind the wings; Dean knew it was him. He would never forget the six words the guy had spoken in that dream, and as it turned out, he would also remember the five that now came out in that gravelled growl. Although for a slightly different reason.

“I want you in bed.”

“What?” Dean said in a voice that was certainly not high enough to count as an omega-like shriek. Well, almost certainly.

“You are clearly coming down with whatever your brother has, Mr. Winchester”, the visitor said patiently. “I shall treat the two of you. I have brought an infusion which should break your brother’s fever, but I shall have to brew up something else for you, as I suspect you have a slightly different strain. Bed. Now.”

“But…”

To his surprise, Dean found himself being manhandled into the back room. Despite the fact the stranger was shorter and much less built that him, he seemed to have an iron grip which he did not relax until his charge was safely placed on the second bed. The visitor then pulled the screen across.

“You will find it a lot more comfortable if you remove as much clothing as possible, Mr, Winchester”, he said from the other side of the screen. “Obviously I must attend to your brother first.”

“Who… are you?” Dean gasped, as he tried to both remove his clothes and ignore the rising feeling of heat and sheer exhaustion.

“Castiel Novak, Gabriel’s brother. Rest, please. I wish to give your brother my full attention.”

Dean finished undressing, sank into the bed and eventually felt himself drifting off. The last thing he remembered was those impossibly blue eyes.

+~+~+

Castiel had to be professional about this. Just because this handsome hunk of meat was (possibly) his future mate, there was no reason not to act with a degree of detachment. Asking the man to remove his clothing was the right thing to do, in the circumstances. And he did need to check the man's body to see just how it was being affected by the fever. 

Perhaps he didn't need to keep checking it constantly for the next hour, though. Just perhaps.

+~+~+

When Dean finally came round late the next day, it was find a familiar face staring down at him.

“Sammy!”

He tried to reach up, only for his body to inform him (very unsubtly) that he was in no fit state for sudden movement. The room swam.

“You’re okay!” Sam looked close to tears. He reached forward and hugged his brother.

“Urgh! You trying to break a rib there, Sammy?”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I never meant…”

“Hey, bitch! Don’t go all mushy on me, or I’ll thump you!”

Sam smiled.

“Dr. Novak was wonderful”, he said. “Broke my fever in, like, two hours. Some sort of herbal thing. Gave me one hell of a headache, but I feel fine now.”

“Yeah. His brother dropped some school stuff off for you. I remember now, it’s over there on the table.”

Sam made a face.

“Ugh! Him!”

“Yeah, what’s with him? Does he stare at you likes he wants to crush you underfoot?”

“Yeah!”

Even in his enfeebled state, Dean spotted it.

“Sammy! Out with it!”

So Sam had to explain to his brother about the incident at the Fraternity House. Dean looked thoughtful, particularly when he noticed his brother's slight blush.

“He looked worried when he saw you ill, Sammy? Anything you'd like to tell me?”

“Yeah, we're secretly engaged and planning to elope to Candis!”

“Bitch!”

“Jerk!”

They grinned at each other. Normal service had been resumed.

“I must go and thank this guy.”

“Then watch out for his guardian angel!”

“Gabriel’s just doing what big bros do, Sam, “Dean said, somewhat surprised to hear himself defending the Man With The Look Of Death. “Looking out for small, defenceless little bros who can’t even….”

Sam hit him. Yup, normal service had been resumed.

+~+~+

The next day, Dean visited the Fraternity House and found Castiel sorting plants on a table in the gardens. The man looked – well, normal. The day was hot, and the storm-tossed accountant look had been replaced with jeans and a sleeveless vest. Dean definitely did not spend too long looking at those long, muscular arms and perfect hands. 

Well, almost definitely.

He was still working out what to say when he caught the man's eyes, and realized he had been caught staring. Ye Gods, those eyes! There should be a law against anyone having eyes as blue as that.

“Hi, I’m Dean. Dean Winchester. You came to treat me, the other day. At the barracks.” 

What was wrong with him? He was sweating, and talking not only too fast but in a much higher tone than normal.

“Yes, I know”, came that familiar gravelled growl. “I believe our brothers are in the same class at the university. I am sure they are good friends.”

Dean thought of the various words Sam had used to describe his rival, quite a few of which didn’t warrant repeating anywhere as religious as this place. Come to think of it, no-one had ever gotten under the sasquatch's skin in that way before.

“Um, yeah”, he muttered awkwardly. “Look, I just came to say thanks for coming round the other day. Saving our lives and all that.”

Castiel looked at Dean curiously, his head tipped to one side. Dean felt as if was being analysed for inclusion in some future book on Strange Creatures of Central Oxania. 

“You both had Oxanian Swamp Fever”, Castiel said at last. “Quite a severe one in your brother’s case, and a rare strain in yours. Not usually life-threatening. You would both have recovered naturally within seven to ten days. My limited skills merely reduced that time somewhat.”

Dean felt as if he was being talked down to. So he reacted as he always did in such circumstances. He lashed out.

“Why does your brother hate me?” he demanded.

“You must ask him that.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Do you know?

“Yes.”

“Then you tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you do not need to know, and when the time is right, you will know.”

“And when will the time be right, eh?”

“When it is right.”

Dean glared at him.

“You’re bloody annoying!”

“I try not to be. You, however, seem to be easily provoked.”

“Then don't provoke me!”

Much to his surprise and annoyance, the elf laughed at him.

“What's so funny?” Dean snapped.

“You. You expect answers to all your questions, yet you give nothing away about yourself.”

“I'm not that interesting.”

“On an emotional level, you are.”

“I don't do that feelings crap”.

He must have blinked, because the guy suddenly seemed a whole lot closer to him.

“Really? No feelings? I saw the way you looked when you couldn't help your brother. You were terrified, Dean. For once in your life, you were dependent on someone else to deal with the one person close to you, and you hated it!”

“I.... you....” Dean spluttered.

“You hate it that Gabriel doesn't like you for no apparent reason. You hate it that you're not in full control of your life, and you're afraid something is going to happen that, for once, you won't be able to stop. You even hate me for treating you when.....”

“I don't hate you!” Dean almost shouted. “Even if I did, what would it matter? Any time I got you upset or anything, you'd just soar into the sky on those big black wings of yours!”

Castiel stared at him in shock. There was a long silence.

“How did you know?” he asked, so quietly Dean could hardly hear him.

“How did I know what?” Dean asked, puzzled.

“That I have wings.”

Dean stared at him.

“But … you... I saw.....”

“I have not unsheathed my wings in public since arriving here”, Castiel said, and now his low voice had a ring of menace about it. “The only other person who knows on this continent is Gabriel, and I am sure he would never tell you something as intimate as that. I repeat, Dean, how did you know?”

Dean had been a warrior for some years, and had survived thus far partly by knowing when not to pick a fight. He felt instinctively that any combat with this nerdy little creature would, despite all appearances, leave him coming out a poor second. If he came out of it at all.

“Lucky guess?” he hazarded hopefully.

Those blue eyes bored into him.

“You will not tell anyone about this, Dean. And I think you should leave”.

“But....”

“Goodbye.”

Castiel picked up his basket and walked swiftly away. Puzzled, Dean had little choice but to go. And he most definitely did not spend the rest of the day thinking about blue eyes and mussed-up dark hair. He absolutely positively did not.

Not the whole day, anyway.

Shut up.

+~+~+

By the following morning, a number of reports concerning new cases of swamp fever had come into the House. Esire did have a small hospital, but this sort of epidemic was more than they could cope with, and Father Abraham summoned those in the Frat House with medical experience to cover a number of cases. Castiel was assigned to go and treat three of them, and left the House at 9:02 precisely.

At 9:46 Gabriel, working on a school project up in their room, felt an irritating itch in his right wing. Unwisely as things turned out, he ignored it.

At 10:03 he belatedly realized what was happening to him, and that he had at most half an hour before it was too late. He scribbled a hasty note to his brother, then rushed to the door to find someone to deliver it. Fortunately a cowled brother was coming up the corridor towards him. Gabriel called out to him.

“Brother...”

“Ilori. Yes?”

“Can you take this message to Cas? It's urgent. I need him back here right now. Father Abraham should have a list of his appointments. Please!”

The brother nodded. 

“Of course. I shall endeavour to make good speed.”

Gabriel thanked him, then slammed and locked the door. Outside, the brother smiled slightly and left.

He didn't go to Father Abraham's office. 

+~+~+

It was twenty-two minutes later that a man climbed the stairs to Gabriel's room. He stared in some puzzlement at the note in his hand, but the brother who had delivered it had made it clear it was urgent, so he had come as quickly as he could. 

Come at once. 'Tis the season. G.

The door was unlocked before the third knock, and an arm dragged him inside before he had time to react, hurling him so fast across the room that he was sent sprawling onto the nearer of the two beds. He heard the door being locked behind him, and turned to see Gabriel panting as if he'd just run a marathon. He was looking at Sam in absolute horror.

“You!” he gasped. “Oh no!”

Then the scent hit Sam, and it seemed that every bit of blood in his body made a bee-line for his lower brain. 

And he leapt on Gabriel

He would not remember much about what happened next, except that, two hours and fifty-three minutes later, Samuel John Winchester had had his first sex with an omega. 

And his second.

And his fourteenth.

+~+~+

Castiel came back later that afternoon, and it took him very little time to work out something had happened in his absence. The brothers he met in the garden looked at him in awe, and he quickly got handed a note asking him to attend on Father Abraham at once. 

“Castiel, you know we are very liberal-minded here”, the old man began. “But the noises your brother was making today were.... somewhat disturbing.

“In what way?” Castiel asked politely.

“It sounded like three hours of non-stop sex.”

Castiel coughed.

“Three hours?” he gasped. Then he realized. Even though he was nearly a year older, Gabriel hadn't....”

“Who was the victim?” he asked tentatively.

The House Leader consulted his notes.

“A classmate of his”, he said. “Brother Petrus saw him enter the House from across the garden. He recognized him from before.” 

Castiel sighed. He just knew what the answer to his next question would be. But he asked it anyway.

“What was his name?”

“Samuel Winchester.”

+~+~+

Castiel chose to walk quickly to the small chapel, hoping that the time spent might allow him to cool down slightly. It didn’t work. Once inside the tiny building, he did not go and kneel at the altar, but instead stood with his arms folded in the middle of the room.

“Braton Stone, you get your sorry ass in here this minute!”

His mind tentatively offered up the suggestions that a) had they seen him now, the brothers would have considered him to have completely lost the plot, and b) he was addressing probably the most powerful being on the planet in less than polite terms. But he was too mad to care.

“I mean it!”

“You are aware that addressing a deity in that manner may earn you a considerable period of time as an amphibian?”, a voice whispered silkily in his left ear. He spun round, but no-one was there.

“Braton!” he yelped.

The god flashed into existence in front of him, dressed in brown work clothes. He had wood shavings clinging to his apron, and was sweating profusely. Castiel glared at him. 

Braton shrugged his shoulders.

“What?”, he said innocently. “Gods aren't allowed to do carpentry?”

Castiel seethed. “You know why I called!” he almost snarled.

“Bellowed, more like. Is something wrong, pray?”

“You did this!”

Braton smiled, and Castiel just longed to hit him. Fortunately there was just enough rationality left in his brain to tell him that might not be his best option.

“I thought you wanted your brother to be happy?” the god said innocently.

“Happy?” Castiel almost shrieked. “He just got assaulted by a classmate!”

“I might suggest you are overlooking something there.”

“Like what?”

“Pagari are much stronger than humans. Gabriel could have stopped Sam at any time. Apparently he chose not to. On all fourteen occasions.”

“But why?”

“To establish a mating bond, of course. At least, that was the first three occasions. You may wish to ask your brother about the remaining eleven. I for one would be quite interested in hearing his explanation.”

Castiel's mouth fell open.

“Bonded? To a human? But that’s impossible!”

“Apparently not for a Level Two bond.”

“But they don't even like each other! At least.....”

“They’ve been in love for the past fifteen days. Your brother merely had to discuss things with Sam calmly.

“Calmly!” 

“Okay, I could add horizontally, vertically, diagonally.…”

“Ew!”

Braton grinned.

“I dare say Sam will be coming down shortly, if somewhat gingerly”. Castiel winced. “Why not be on the bench waiting for him – oh, and a cushion might be an idea. I think he might want a few things explaining.”

“He's not the only one!”

“I might mention at this point that wings were involved.”

Castiel paled.

“He didn't! Please tell me you're kidding!”

“That's the only reason they stopped at fourteen”, Braton smirked. “The human body isn't really designed to cope with what amounts to an all-over orgasm....”

Castiel threw his hands over his ears in horror.

“Stop it!”

Braton sniggered. Castiel glared at him.

“Are they really that suited?”

“Level Two, remember? Less than one in twenty pagari achieve that.”

“Oh”. He hesitated for a moment, then decided he might as well go the whole hog. “And.... your plans for me?”

Braton winked at him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he grinned, and vanished. 

Castiel decided that he had been wrong. Braton Stone could be even more annoying.

+~+~+

“Gabriel and I are pagari”, explained Castiel, as he and Sam sat down on the garden bench (Braton had been right; Sam was really grateful for the cushion). “We are a magical race who mostly live in the forests of Kyronia, in central Irilia. An... unusual chain of events brought us here, like the ones which let you into his room whilst he’s in season.” 

“What’s ‘in season’?” asked Sam, wincing as his jaw decided to get in on the pain act.

Castiel shifted surreptitiously a little further away from the human. Ye gods, his brother had scented the man enough to last for a month!

“It happens sometime in the two years after every pagari omega’s eighteenth birthday”, he explained, breathing through his mouth to limit the marking smell. “It's like a human omega's first heat, but so much more intense. The only safeguard is to be close kin, otherwise any alpha or beta who comes into contact with the omega in the next three days will find their scent irresistible. Most of us just shut ourselves away, and family supply food while it lasts. We all know the drill. Now that you and my brother have bonded, he will return to normal in a matter of hours, if he hasn't already. May I see your chest?”

Sam looked surprised, but raised what was left of his t-shirt. Like most of his clothes, it had a distinctively shredded appearance. Castiel stared for a short while, then muttered “typical!”

“What?”

Castiel held his hand a few inches from Sam’s chest, and whispered a few strange words. A symbol appeared over the young man’s heart, glowing a strange blue colour. It was most definitely a letter ‘G’.

Even when he’s in season, he has to leave his mark on you in his own way!” he said. “It’s supposed to be just a hand-print of your future husband, but he’s gone and….”

“Whoa, back a minute there! That last bit! Husband?”

“Sam, do you like Gabe?”

“How can I? You know what I just did to him! He'll never want to see me again.... aaarrghhh!

Sam fell to the ground and curled into a ball, groaning in pain. If those three hours had been painful – well, intense – okay, settle on unforgettable - then this was ten times worse.

“What in the name of all the gods was that?” he managed to gasp eventually.

“The bond. You loved Gabe enough for him to bond with you. And not just a normal one; less than five per cent of pagari achieve a Level Two bonding. If you think unhappy thoughts about him, it shorts out the connection, causing some pain.”

“Some?” Sam squeaked. “Dying here!”

Castiel helped him back onto the bench, and he sat still for a while, recovering.

“In all fairness, he could have stopped you”, Castiel pointed out.

“But he didn't! Hell, not until I passed out!”

“After the fourteenth time, I'm told”, Castiel teased. “How did you feel about the wings?” 

“Hell, don’t start bringing up that! Hallucinations were all I needed.....”

Castiel smiled at him, and waited. Sam paled.

“It wasn’t… I mean….”

“We are flying humanoids. We can fly short distances without them, but we need to generate our wings for longer flights. And, uh... for other things.” 

Castiel wondered how long it would be before Sam.... then he saw him reddening rapidly, and knew he had remembered.

“So that was... when he put them.... oh! Oh fuck!”

Castiel stood up, smiling.

“Go and see him. I think the two of you have rather a lot to discuss.”

“But he’s gone.”

“He’ll be hiding in the store room, through the door by the wardrobe. He always goes there when he wants some quiet time. Go on.”

Sam stood up, still a little gingerly.

“I did start to have feelings for him before this, you know”, he admitted shyly. “I just didn't see any way of acting on them. And when he... I mean....”

Castiel smiled encouragingly.

“You think we have a chance of.... making it?”

“I think you're made for each other!”

“You are awesome, Cas! It’s going to be great having you as a brother-in-law. I just can’t wait to tell Dean”.

He hurried (or at least limped quickly) back to the House.

Yes, thought Castiel, a slight smile of mischief twitching his lips. I would just love to be there when you ‘tell Dean’.

+~+~+

Dean, it might be said, took the news surprisingly well.

After spending an hour threatening to kill Gabriel, which he was talked out of mainly because Sam explained that it would hurt his beloved little brother.

And then a further hour threatening to kill his beloved little brother, on the grounds that a) he deserved it, and b) it would hurt Gabriel.

And then by getting gloriously drunk.

But apart from that, he took the news surprisingly well.


	12. Into The Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Gabriel Incident, Dean finally thinks his life is set fair. He really should know by now.

Dean woke the following morning to the sound of the day-to-day army routine going on outside his window, the sound of Martin in the kitchen cooking something that smelled truly wonderful, and the sound of a seventy-six piece orchestra playing far too loudly somewhere behind his eyes.

He was really getting too old for this sort of thing.

He managed to dress himself and stumble to the kitchen table, where Martin promptly placed some sort of drink in front of him. It was brown and yellow and, frankly, looked vile, but he guessed it must be for him, so he drank it down in one gulp.

That was when the seventy-six piece orchestra decided to all play as loudly as they could for about three seconds of utter agony. And then..... there was silence.

Dean was only slowly aware that he had five fully-functional senses again, and that everyone was looking at him.

“Hey, I’m back”, he managed weakly.

Marty glanced curiously at him, then grabbed his school bag and left the room. Lance tutted, put his book into his bag and followed his brother out. Martin brought him a coffee which, had it been any stronger, would probably have dissolved the spoon he used to stir it.

“Feeling better?” he grinned.

“Yeah, I feel fine now. What was that?”

“Doctor Novak dropped it off yesterday evening, after you’d been put to bed. He said you'd probably need it.”

“You mean Cas?”

Martin looked at him narrowly.

“Yes. Of course. Castiel Novak”.

+~+~+

“Good morning, colonel.”

Dean started. The pygar hadn't even been looking in his direction.

“Hi, Cas”, he managed.

The pygar raised an eyebrow at him.

“'Cas'?” he said questioningly.

Dean reddened.

“Sorry, it's a nickname”, he blurted out. “I should have....”

“Actually I quite like it”, the pygar said wryly. “Only Gabriel calls me that, as a rule.”

Dean coughed awkwardly. 

“Sorry to interrupt you at your labours, but it seems I’ve come to say thanks. Again. You brewing up another hangover cure there?”

Castiel sighed and rose to his feet, picking up the basket of herbs. This morning he was wearing jeans and a sweater that seemed to feature every colour in the rainbow. It made Dean's stomach feel uneasy again just by looking at it.

“No”, the pygar said. “There’s not usually that much demand for them.”

Dean blushed.

“Um, I’ve been reading up about… you know, you folks, and I wondered if you might... you know, clear a few things up for me?”

Damn it! He was blabbering like a teenager talking to their first crush. What was wrong with him around this guy?

“Of course”, Castiel said politely. “I will answer your questions to the best of my ability. How is Sam this morning, may I ask?”

“Sore. Still can't sit down without a cushion.”

At first he thought that remark had drawn no response, but then he noticed a slight crinkling at the edges of Castiel's eyes, as if a smile was considering putting in an appearance on his face but had decided to wait for a bit. To his horror, the thought that's so cute popped up in his mind, then sat there and refused to go away. Castiel led him to a nearby bench and sat down, looking at him expectantly.

“So you're a pygar”, Dean said, sitting beside him. 

“Indeed.”

“You people are only supposed to live in Irilia. How come you're over here?”

Castiel raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, and Dean realized just how that question had sounded.

“Uh...”

“A reasonable question”, Castiel mused. “My uncle Luri, who is a powerful warlock, advised Gabriel and myself to come here, and brought us over. He said this was where we would find our destinies. In Gabriel's case, he appears to have been proven correct.”

“Them doing it..... Sam and Gabe. It's real, isn't it?” Dean asked.

“If we can 'do it' with thorns”, Castiel said, air-quoting with his fingers around Dean;s choice of words, “then I am sure humans would not be a problem.”

“What are thorns?”

“A race of twelve-foot tall giants who live in the north of Kyronia”, Castiel explained . They can mate with each other, but they prefer to 'do it' with us.”

“Uh, just a minute”, Dean said cautiously. “One of you, mated by someone twice his size? I mean, how do they…. how does he….”

The warrior seemed to just run out of words. Castiel looked at him.

“Very, very carefully”.

Dean just had to laugh. He was beginning to realize that, whilst Castiel apparently had no sense of humour, he had a great way of stating things so matter-of-factly that they became hilarious. The pygar looked at Dean’s reaction in surprise, but said nothing. 

“So how come our brothers were able to get it together? I mean, I know Sam’s ridiculously tall and all that, but he’s no thorn.” An awful thought crossed Dean’s mind, and he paled.

“No, Dean, he is not going to transform into a thorn”, said Castiel calmly. “That can happen, but only to a pygar mated by a thorn. I don't know exactly what effect Gabe will have on Sam; pagari-human bonds are unknown in this day and age. I myself did not even think they were possible. But I know Gabe must love your brother very much, or they could never have bonded.”

“What exactly is this 'bond'?”

Dean watched as Castiel looked down at his hands. Long, slender hands that he would just love to have.... stop it!

“It is a deep, unbreakable emotional attachment”, the pygar said. “Sometimes deadly.”

Dean started at the word. 

“Deadly? How do you mean?”

Castiel turned to look at him. 

“Humans can mate with each other”, he said, “then if things do not 'work out', they can separate. That option isn't open to us. Pagari have different levels of bonding. A Level One bond, which ninety-five per cent of my species have, can be broken. The omega will be emotionally scarred, but he will survive. My parents had one such bond, for which as things turned out proved a blessing, otherwise I would have lost my papa when they broke up.”

“Lost him?” Dean asked, puzzled. “How, exactly?”

“A Level Two bond, like the one Sam and Gabriel have, is much more intense”, Castiel explained. “If Sam died or just walked out, Gabriel would have no reason to carry on. Unless of course he had under-age fledglings still to raise, but even then he would only stay for as long as it took to see them all settled, then he would just die.”

Dean shuddered.

“Is there a Level Three?” he ventured.

Castiel nodded.

“Only Pygar, the founder of our species, had one of those, with his human mate Meriwether. None have been recorded since.” He sighed, and looked almost wistful. “It is said to be of an intensity so great, the body can barely stand it. I do not know what the consequences of breaking such a bond would be, but I fear they would be truly terrible. At least for the omega; the alpha or beta is always much less affected.

“That seems bloody unfair!” Dean growled.

“That is the way things are with my people”, Castiel smiled sadly. “The price of being able to soar into the skies is that, sometimes, we crash and burn.”

“You've never.... you know? Season? Thing?”

What had gone wrong with his vocabulary? And why was the image that almost-question brought forward so unsettling?

“I have not. I still have that particular ordeal to come.” 

“Must be hard facing all that so far from most of your family.”

The minute the words were out, he knew he'd said something wrong. Castiel winced as if he’d struck him. 

“What’s wrong?” the warrior asked anxiously.

“Gabriel was all the family I had left”, Castiel said, so quietly that Dean could barely hear him. “And I have lost him to Sam.”

He stopped. Dean stared at him. The man looked set to cry, before pulling himself together with a visible effort.

“I still have a fraternal bond with him as my brother”, he said, still very quietly. “But Sam’s bond overrides that, and they deserve to be together. I… I have no-one else. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“To save my sorry butt?”

Castiel smiled weakly at him. Dean felt bad for the man so, being Dean Winchester, managed to say the worst possible thing.

“What about your papa? And your other brothers?”

“I have no bond with them.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Castiel looked straight at him. Dean didn't flinch, but it was close.

“Because I am dangerous, Dean. To anyone who knows me. I love my papa, Mike and Luke too much to risk them by maintaining our bond. I know the future holds something for me that may well be deadly, and I would not imperil them just for the sake of a bond. They were reluctant, but I insisted. I wanted to release Gabriel as well, but he refused.”

“What sort of danger?”

“I do not know, only that it is great. The fewer people who know me, the better.”

He was staring intently at the warrior. The direct gaze was too much, and Dean stared down at the basket of herbs.

The basket. Of herbs. Medicinal herbs.

How had he been so stupid? Oh yes, he was Dean Winchester, so the answer probably ran to a full-blown essay, if not a set of encyclopedias. 

His problem and Castiel's. It was fate.

“Come with me!” he blurted.

“What?” Castiel looked sharply at him.

“I need a doctor”, Dean explained. “Someone who can work at the barracks in Esire. Doctor Wesson wants to retire, I’ve been looking everywhere to try to find a replacement, and hey, you said you needed to get away. It’s a win-win situation!”

He had already decided that Castiel's long stares were freaky, but the one the pygar was giving him now was deeper and more unsettling than usual, as if he was looking into Dean’s very soul.

“Very well”, he said at last. “And thank you for the offer. When shall we be leaving?”

Dean was surprised. He had expected all sorts of objections. 

“Er, three weeks. The fifteenth.”

“Good. Then I shall be ready to accompany you on the fifteenth.”

Dean smiled in relief.

“And I shall look forward to your explanation about how you knew I have wings.”

Scratch the relief. Now Dean was nervous.

He would have felt even more nervous had he been aware that he was being watched.

+~+~+

Lirius Bartholomew always used his own private spell hotline to communicate with his bosses in Vacore. He could of course have used the governor-general's one, but he knew that conversations on that could be recorded, and in his position he took no chances. His career could be on the line if he made just one wrong move.

General Argrom sounded even more annoyed than usual as he received his weekly report.

“It's bad enough that Barclay's so popular”, he growled. “People are saying that when he does eventually retire, he's a shoo-in for the Council. But the longer we keep him there, the more popular he gets. And then there's this new idiot.... Westchester?”

“Winchester, sir”, Bartholomew said crisply. “You appointed him to Esire, and he'll be leaving for there in a few weeks.”

“Humph”, the general grunted. “That was damned annoying; we had Bertram's boy all lined up for that post, but then.... well, the less said about that, the better. Still, it's only a minor post, now the border's secure. What's he like, this Winchester?”

“Possibly another Barclay in the making, sir”, Bartholomew said. “Very organized, smart, well-presented. The only time I've seen him flustered was when he was talking to an elf at the Frat House.”

“What elf?”

“A new arrival. I understand he treated Winchester and his brother during the recent swamp fever outbreak. Winchester went to the House today to thank him, presumably; I could not get close enough to hear all their conversation. Do you wish me to investigate the man further, sir?”

“Yes”, the general said firmly. “Can't be too careful, can we?”

+~+~+

“You're happy, aren't you?”

Gabriel looked up in surprise at his brother's question.

“Yeah”, he answered, smiling. “More than I've ever been. I feel so safe when I'm with him. Protected and loved. I'd always dreamed of a thorn, and after we left home... well. But with Sam, it's just right.”

“He feels the same way about you, Gabe.”

“Yeah, I...... wait a minute, how do you know that?”

“I saw him when he was leaving earlier. He didn't see me. He practically floated past me down the path, he was so out of it.”

Gabriel smiled again.

“That, plus the fact you've been moved to the most distant room in the House so we can all be spared the noises you both make when he visits.”

Gabriel spluttered indignantly, and flushed bright red.

“We do not!”

“Apparently the people two doors down the road complained as well.” 

“You're mocking me!”

Castiel smiled.

“I do love you, Gabe. And I'm glad you've found true happiness.”

Gabriel ran his hand along his brother's jaw, and smiled.

“Not quite true happiness”, he said. “You're not happy yet, Cas. And I want you to be as happy as I am.”

“Dean is my destiny, one way or another”, Castiel sighed. “I have to go with him, and see what happens. It will not be easy, but..... I know I have to go.”

“It's your choice. I have to respect that. Just.... be careful.”

“I will.”

Gabriel looked relieved.

“And I'll make sure Dean gets no wing sex until we're engaged”.

Gabriel spluttered again, and managed to go even redder. 

+~+~+

One week later, Bartholomew frowned as he looked across the library. He had had a talk with Heston, the man in charge of the Imperial spying corps in the province, and the man had done some digging. The sum result was that Bartholomew now knew that Castiel was definitely not an elf, and.... well, that was about it. And he still had to report his (lack of) findings to General Argrom that evening, who would most likely not be pleased. The last person the general had been displeased with had got a twenty-year assignment to the Thousand Isles, the ultimate armpit province. 

The advisor walked over to stand just a few feet behind the... whatever it was, and observed him closely. He was sat at a reading-table, a number of scrolls spread in front of him, and he was reading one of them intently. Bartholomew felt annoyed. His career could be going up in smoke unless he had something to report in a few hours' time. 

That frustration prompted him into action. Moving silently, he unsheathed his dagger and pressed the point into the being's back. The 'thing' tensed.

“What are you?” Bartholomew hissed.

It was probably the stupidest move of his life. It was certainly the last.

+~+~+

Throm Barclay was rarely surprised, but he certainly was now.

“It exploded?” he asked incredulously. “How, precisely?”

Private Peter Green shook, but managed an answer.

“They don't know, sir”, he got out. “But they think it might be Mr. Bartholomew, sir. They found his dagger in the wreckage, and the blade was completely melted, sir. They think he was in there, but... well, there wasn't enough left to identify him, sir. Just his tags and a pile of dust, oh, and the boots, sir.”

Throm sighed. No matter what the cause of death, there was always a set of smoking boots left behind. It seemed to be a law of nature.

“Other casualties?” he asked.

“Four injured, but none serious, and they're all being cared for at the Frat House a few doors down, sir. Fortunately Doctor Novak was in the library at the time and not badly hurt, so he was able to help out, sir.”

Throm nodded. That was one of the perils of a magical world. Probably some warlock who Lirius had annoyed taking his final revenge. He suppressed a smile and dismissed Green. 

He would enjoy telling the Council about this.

+~+~+

More wreckage, Metatron sighed. Honestly, this brat was nothing but trouble. Thankfully the detection spell had flared up the instant before the explosion, and the invisible god was carefully picking his way through the ruins.

“I don't get it”, Gadreel's voice came through his ear-piece. “Libraries don't really feature in fairy-tales.”

Metatron moved towards where the entrance had been, and the detection spell flared up in intensity.

“I'm moving towards the coat-room”, he said. “It seems slightly stronger in that direction. Do coats feature at all?”

“Not that I can recall”, Gadreel said, clearly puzzled. 

“Someone has no taste!” Metatron sniggered.

“How so?”

“There's an outfit here that's all red”, Metatron said. “Tacky or what?”

He recognized the silence that followed.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“The red thing”, Gadreel said. “Is it a cape with a hood on it?”

Metatron checked, and grinned.

“Indeed it is!” he said. “And the spell is leading me straight to.....”

His voice trailed off.

“What's wrong?” Gadreel demanded anxiously.

“I'll talk to you when I get back to my room”, Metatron said flatly. “We may have a slight problem.”

+~+~+

“I'm fine!” Castiel snapped, as far too many people fussed round him. “And no, I have no idea what caused the explosion, constable.”

Constable Moravius of the town police sighed, and reluctantly left the room. The door had barely shut before it burst open again. Castiel sighed in exasperation.

“They said you were in an explosion!” Dean blurted out. “What happened?”

“I have no idea”, Castiel said. “Although apparently they found the remains of Mr. Bartholomew in the wreckage. Possibly he was researching into something that disagreed with him?”

Tom, the Frat House brother attending to Castiel's relatively minor injuries, sniggered. Dean glared at him.

“But you're okay?” he asked.

“I am fine, Castiel said. “Certainly in a lot better shape than the library.”

“Libraries can be rebuilt”, Dean said shortly. “Provided you're all right, that's the main thing.”

He left. Tom hummed something that sounded horribly like the wedding march.

“Shut up!” Castiel said snappishly.

The brother feigned a hurt look that Castiel did not believe for a minute.

+~+~+

“Two?” Gadreel said uncertainly.

Metatron nodded, before remembering his friend could not actually see him. 

“A pair of red gloves, labelled 'L' and 'R'”, he said grimly. And the detector spell works the same on them both. Are you sure it's only one letter per item?”

“I made sure of that before this whole thing started”, Gadreel said morosely. “One of those is the right letter, but we've no way of knowing which. What letters do we have so far?”

“Well, the word contains 'R', 'E', 'C', 'O' and 'Y', plus either the 'R' or the 'L'”, Metatron said. “Fuck! We were so close!”

“Sorcery?” Gadreel suggested.

“You think someone planted that extra glove?” Metatron asked, horrified. “Someone's on to us....”

“No”, Gadreel cut in. “I meant the word, 'sorcery'. If the 'R' is the right choice and the last letter turns out to be an 'S', then you could make the word ''sorcery' from the letters. It would be appropriate.”

Metatron thought about that.

“There's no point speculating until I can find that last item, and the last letter”, he said firmly. “I need a break. Today has been bloody tiring!”

“I'll let you go”, Gadreel said.

Metatron sighed, and wandered over to his chess cube. At least here things were going much more to plan. He advanced his bishop to take an unprotected black pawn, and smiled. He was now a whole major piece up, and closing in on the black prince. Either way, the game was drawing to its end. 

Both games.

+~+~+

“I still don’t see why it has to be so soon”, Dean whined.

“Pagari weddings take place within a week of bonding”, Castiel said firmly, adjusting his tie so it was marginally less crooked. Blue, like his eyes, thought Dean abstractly.

“And why outside?” he asked, trying to drag his mind from out of the gutter. “It might rain or something.”

“It’s not a long service”, Castiel said reassuringly. “Sam and Gabriel pledge their love for each other, then they perform a ritual, and….”

“What sort of ritual?” Dean asked at once.

Castiel smiled knowingly, and Dean's heart did that annoying fluttering thing again.

“You will find out when the time is right.”

Beautiful, but as annoying as ever, Dean thought with a grimace.

“Then let’s get this show on the road!” he snapped.

+~+~+

Castiel had been right; the wedding vows lasted less than five minutes. He and Dean were the only ones present; this was normal, Castiel had told him, since only one family member from each side attended. Then Father Abraham, covertly reading the notes Castiel had given him, pronounced them married.

“Take it away!” he smiled.

Dean would never forget the look on his brother’s face at what happened next, although if he could have seen his own, it would have come a close second. Gabriel stepped forward and grabbed his new husband firmly, then spread out his golden wings and soared straight up into the air. Within seconds the two had dwindled to just a speck, although Sam’s horrified shriek still lingered on the air. 

“Okay!” Dean said slowly. “So that’s the ritual.”

“The first part of it”, Castiel admitted.

Dean noticed he was blushing slightly.

“There’s a second part?” he asked tentatively, not sure if he really wanted to know.

“Yes. It’s a test of trust. Normally the alpha or beta would lead the flight. but as only Gabriel has wings, he does it. The first part is for Sam to trust that his new husband will not let him go. The second is mating at over a mile up. It is known amongst our people as ‘joining the Mile High Club’.”

The shrieking had either stopped, or the two newly-weds were so far away it could no longer be heard. Dean tried hard not to think about what was happening a mile above his head. Hell, with all the time he'd spent in the whore house he must have done it in almost every position known to man, but even so….

“Lucky devil!” he muttered, absently.

He turned just in time to see the edges of Castiel’s eyes crinkling, a sure sign of another almost-smile. Suddenly he had an image of the two of them, soaring skywards, making love in the clouds…..

He snapped out of it to see the pygar still smiling. Was he thinking….?

“You’ll find someone yourself, one day”, Dean said.

He wasn't expecting the pygar's response.

“I think I already have.”

Dean felt a sudden pain in his heart, as Castiel smiled at him and walked slowly back to the Frat House. The warrior coughed, and tried to pull himself together. The pygar was coming with him to Esire. The person he loved wouldn’t be there.

It was that same evening that he discovered Castiel had put in a last-minute request for one of Throm’s soldiers to be transferred to Dean’s new command. A handsome young chap from Karsel, called Kevin Tran.

Drat!

+~+~+

Throm sent them on their way with a ten-man escort – including, much to the new colonel's chagrin, the definitely surplus to (his) requirements Tran. Dean drove the cart containing his and Castiel's meagre belongings, plus some supplies Throm had gifted him. They could have made Esire in a single day at a push, but Dean had decided to spend the night in the small town of Rhine Bay, about two-thirds of the way there and the last town in Transoxania, so he could arrive refreshed to his new post the following day. 

“You still haven't told me how you knew about the wings.”

They were in the Fox and Hounds Inn, where Dean had procured them a twin room for the night. The men were sleeping in the stables to watch the horses and supplies. Dean sat on his bed and tried to think of a better explanation than the truth.

“Well?” Castiel asked.

“This is going to sound dumb.”

“Try me, Dean.”

“Er...”

“Preferably before we go to sleep would be nice.”

“Hey! Okay, you asked for it. I saw you in a dream.”

Castiel raised a quizzical eyebrow. Dean prayed fervently that he wouldn't ask the obvious next question. Of course, he did.

“What sort of dream?”

“Nothing erotic or anything”. Dean said hurriedly. “I was just out running, and met you. Then you flew off, like you didn't want me to follow you.”

“But you did anyway.”

“I did what?”

“You tried to follow me, didn't you?”

Dean blushed.

“Yeah”, he admitted.

“Oh. That's all right, then.” And with that he slipped off his trousers and got into bed.

Dean just stared at him.

“You believe me?” he said at last.

“Of course”, Castiel muttered sleepily.

“But why? I mean, I hardly believe it myself, and I was there!”

Castiel yawned.

“Because I had the same dream barely a week before I met you at the Frat House”, he said sleepily. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Oh. Er, goodnight, Cas.”

Barely a week. That must mean they had had the same dream on the same night. He stared at the sleeping figure in the other bed, and wondered..... did Castiel actually remember the words he'd spoken in the dream?

+~+~+

In the offices of the TSA, Crowley sat in his favourite chair and pressed his fingers together. Adding that second glove had been a stroke of genius, and he could only hope it would distract that idiot scribe from what the spell he had nearly completed was trying to warn him about. Fortunately he suspected Metatron was so focussed on all the power he was planning to have that he would miss it, and so far, he had.

Obviously he would kill Braton Stone first. But for the other gods.... he would have to start making a list.


	13. Love On The Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romance is in the air in Esire.

A month in, and Dean had settled into his new post well. Throm's coaching had been just what he needed, and he had fairly exploded on the luckless townsfolk and even more luckless soldiers of Esire, with the result that after just a month the barracks was already much more efficient (partly due to the worst ten per cent of the soldiers quitting). He knew he had that part of the job licked when one of the councillors who he had to deal with said it was like having the great man himself back. That was one hell of a compliment.

Dean had also learned five things about his new doctor in his first month:

First, Castiel liked to draw and paint, but didn't like people to see his work (though he did eventually allow Dean to see his first ever sketch, one of a house by a quiet beach). Dean had made sure that his stationery orders included lots of pencils and as much quality paper as he could get. For 'planning reasons', obviously.

Second, Castiel enjoyed gardening. Dean found this out when he caught him attending to the wilting plants in front of the flagpole one day. The warrior had arranged for several of the men to replant the flagpole garden ('it's good display stuff for visitors') and enlarge the tiny garden at the back of the medical centre ('we need to grow more of our own herbs and stuff').

Third, Castiel loved music. Dean had heard the men talking about him playing the old piano in the games room from time to time, so he had it retuned, as well as buying in several other instruments 'so the men could enjoy themselves more'. 

Fourth, Castiel loved tea, but hated the camp coffee. Tea was expensive and hard to obtain, but eventually Dean managed to persuade a merchant who traded through the port to supply it to the barracks 'for medicinal purposes'.

Fifth and perhaps most importantly, Dean Winchester was totally and hopelessly in love with Castiel Novak. And he didn't have the first clue what to do about it!

+~+~+

As camp doctor, Castiel had to send over a medical report every day listing the soldiers who had reported ill. For anyone else Dean would have just filed this under 'irritating paperwork', but he decided that this was preventing him having time with his doctor, so he started calling in at the medical centre at ten every morning, knowing Castiel liked to take his tea then (the fact he'd all but drawn up a copy of the guy's schedule was not at all freaky). This particular morning there were three men who had registered sick, an unusually high number after the clear-out effected by Dean's arrival.

“Tran came in with another headache”, said Castiel, carefully pouring himself some tea. Dean actually quite liked the stuff, but didn't want to use up the limited supplies, so just sat there and sipped some water. “But he's quite all right now.”

Dean hesitated.

“You never told me why he wanted to be transferred here”, he said carefully.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality”, Castiel said, looking unusually edgy for some reason. “I can't tell you unless not to do so would endanger the barracks in some way. It's quite personal.”

“Fair enough.” Fuck!

“I have tried to get him to talk about it, but he's.... nervous. I don't think he's come across anything like this in his life until now.”

“I suppose you could tell that just by looking at him?” Dean joked.

It was fortunate he was sat down for the doctor's reply.

“Actually, I do have limited mind-reading skills.”

Dean could not stop himself letting out a strangled moan. Castiel did his crinkle-at-the-edges-of-the-eyes half-smile, and Dean's stomach did that annoying flippy thing that was almost certainly indigestion. And definitely not butterflies. The doctor looked at him rather too knowingly.

“I never actually read someone's mind without their permission, colonel”, he said reassuringly, “although I can get a general sense of how a person is feeling. Your secrets, whatever they may be, are your own.”

“Er, thanks”, Dean said, desperately wanting to change the subject. “The other two – anything unusual?”

“Brady's bad leg, and it's coming on nicely. And the reason I know he got it falling out of a whore house bed and not from the assault course is gossip, not telepathy.” 

Dean grinned. “And?” he prompted.

To his surprise, Castiel blushed.

“Malachi has a broken arm.”

“Not unusual for him”, Dean sighed, recognizing the name of one of the few remaining troublemakers. “I'm surprised he's lasted this long.”

“I.... broke it.”

The warrior spluttered most of his water across the room, narrowly missing his doctor.

“You did what?”

“He was persistent in his advances”, Castiel said defensively. “I made it quite clear that his attentions were not welcome. He chose not to desist, and tried to kiss me. I therefore felt compelled to make sure he clearly understood my feelings on the matter.”

Dean was amazed. Malachi was one of the biggest men in the barracks, a huge ex-mercenary from Barbaria almost twice the doctor's size, yet Castiel had taken him down.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked anxiously.

“Of course not. I did not give him the opportunity.”

“He's finished!” Dean growled. The thought of the beefy Malachi trying to muscle in on his doctor filled him with jealousy....

Oh. Castiel was looking at him.

“May I say something?” the doctor asked quietly.

Damn! He knows!

“Of course”, Dean managed with a fake smile.

“I would suggest that you put Tran down for the Three Hills exercise.”

“Er, why?”

“He's a good soldier, and his knowledge of Karseli battle-play may be useful. I like him.”

Dean felt a stab of pain at that. Damn it, he was jealous!

“Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks, Cas”.

He was in so deep.

+~+~+

Dean was sweating heavily when he got back to his room, only to find the drinks cabinet locked and someone familiar sat at his desk, swinging the key on its chain. Apparently his day could get worse.

“Sweaty palms? High blood pressure? Heart racing? Drink really isn't the answer, Dean. You should see a doctor.”

Dean glared at the figure in the desk chair. Braton Stone was far too good at this cruelty thing.

“You're enjoying this!” he accused.

“I wouldn't exactly say 'enjoying'” grinned the god. “It's more like a play, and we're just into Act One.”

“Which is?”

“Knowing how it feels to have him. Though in your case, perhaps it's to have him, and yet not have the balls to step up to the plate and tell him how you feel.”

“Damn it, how can I do that?” Dean almost yelled. “He'll either look at me like I'm some interesting new species for his collection, or more likely just run for the hills!”

“So you're scared?”

“Terrified, more like!”

Braton leant forward and waved the cabinet key at him.

“Faint heart never won fair prince”, he observed dryly, and vanished with the key. Dean glared after him, but he supposed he could forgive him. 

That was until he found the god had taken both the spare keys as well, and magically locked the cabinet door! Bastard!

+~+~+

The bar was slightly (as in decidedly) seedy, but when you're looking for somewhere less likely to end up with your tired face appearing on a million Twitter sites, it was just what the actor needed. He'd been feeling down with the latest season of the show, and keeping up with his goofball image was tiring. If he didn't have a wife and kids to support, he'd probably throw the whole thing in. At least here there was no chance of his being recognized.

Crap! The barman was staring at him! 

Misha looked at him, and sighed resignedly. So much for anonymity. But then the man smiled, and silently gestured to one of the beer taps. Fortunately the actor's favourite, so he nodded his agreement. Something about the guy seemed vaguely familiar.

“Do I know you?” the actor asked quietly. They were far enough away from everyone else not to be overheard, and the guy seemed harmless enough. 

“You should”, the barman smiled. “I thought it was us normal folks who stalked famous actors, not the other way round?”

Misha stared at him in confusion.

“Steve Barton”, the guy said. “The hickeys on the bus? The casting interview? Ring any bells?”

Misha gaped.

“How the hell did you know how I take my tea?” he blurted out.

All right, probably not the best line to use on someone who could blow his cover. He reddened at his own rudeness. The guy looked at him thoughtfully.

“You seem down”, he offered at last.

“”Just... what's the use?” the actor said with a sigh. “I mean, Hollywood? Fame? It's all so pointless!”

The barman smiled, and extracted an iPhone. For a moment Misha was sure he was going to snap him after all, but apparently the guy was calling up a web page, which he then passed across to the actor. It was a Twitter fan page, devoted (of course) to him.

“So someone thinks I look good”, he sighed. “Yay!”

“Her name is Maybelle”, the barman said quietly. “Last year, she lost her job, and was on the point of ending it all when she chanced to see your charity website. She got involved, and now she's fully back together again. It's not just acting; you do a whole load of good just by being you, Misha. You inspire, you lead, and you shine. People are lucky to have you.”

He smiled as he slid the beer across the bar, then moved away to deal with another customer, leaving a very thoughtful actor behind him.

Not as thoughtful as later, though, when he approached another barman and asked for Steve, only to be told no-one of that name or description worked there....

+~+~+

Throm Barclay had warned Dean that he couldn’t expect to hit it off with everybody in his new position, but after two months the Empire’s newest colonel felt he’d gotten on the right side of almost everybody in his new post.

Okay, everybody who had a right side. And that, obviously, excluded the likes of Evelyn Goddard. The latter was both the spy-master and Imperial agent in Esire (he must have had friends in high places to manage that, Dean reasoned), and along with his three agents, he didn’t really seem to do much. He was also the person who could get Dean suspended, though with the support of both Throm Barclay and General Allonby, Dean felt he was in a stronger position than most to counter that threat. Goddard reminded Dean of a reptile, the sort one finds scurrying across the floor and stamps down quickly on. Several times. He had an oily, soft voice, and Dean was sure he would have made an excellent Inquisitor. 

Which was why he was more than a little alarmed when the man asked to see him one day. And more than a little horrified by the way the meeting started.

“I am concerned about Doctor Novak.”

Dean tensed. Had the spy master discovered his feelings for the pygar?

“Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as normal as possible. 

“He has unexplained absences.”

“How do you mean?”

Goddard looked at his notes.

“Every day, he is off duty between 1300 and 1530 hours. He leaves the barracks shortly after the start of this time. He always returns before 1530, but usually looks extremely tired. I have no idea where he spends the intervening time. It is irritating.”

Dean tried not to think how far it was to the local whore house. There was technically nothing illegal about the doctor supplementing his income that way; attractive omegas were rare in such a small town. No, nothing wrong with it at all. 

Even if the thought of it made Dean's skin crawl.

“You had him followed?” he asked.

Goddard looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Of course!” he snapped. “But he always manages to elude us. Yesterday I posted my agents along all possible routes out of the barracks, yet he still managed to disappear whilst passing a high hedge. He is not a wizard of any sort, so this should not be possible. I obviously assumed the whore house, but I know he didn't go there.”

Dean hid a smile in his coffee.

“Perhaps he grew wings and flew away?”

“Don’t be silly, colonel!” the spy master snapped. 

“Well, I’ll track him, then”, Dean suggested, thinking privately that at least this would show him co-operating with this nasty little excuse for a humanoid. “I’ve hunted down a fair few beasties in my time. Let’s see if I have any better luck. Maybe if he’s looking out for you all the time, he won’t be expecting me.”

He half-expected Goddard to refuse, but instead the spy master smiled one of his oiliest smiles.

“Why not, colonel? And good hunting!”

Dean really, really wanted to stamp on him. Hard.

+~+~+

As the town clock struck one in the distance, Dean was ready behind a tree in a garden at the junction of Barracks Lane and Short Street. Goddard had said that the doctor normally turned right here, but not always. This time he did, and Dean silently followed him, up Short Street, along Backwalls Lane, then into Catford Alley.

Where he lost him.

The man had been out of his sight for less than two seconds, and there was no way he could have gotten to the end of the alley in time. The doors to the various back gardens were all shut, yet he seemed to have disappeared into thin air. And if he had flown with or without his wings, Dean would have seen him for sure. He was just wondering whether to risk a dash up the alley on the off chance when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

“Good evening, colonel.”

Fuck!

“Um, hi, Cas.” May the Fates take me now!

“Are you looking for someone?” The pygar's eyes crinkled at the edges, in that definitely not cute almost-smile that did not make the butterflies in Dean's stomach start to party. He obviously knew full well why his colonel was here, but seemed determined to make him suffer. Dean decided honesty was the only way out.

“Yeah. You. I was…. concerned.”

Castiel did that head-tilt thing that Dean did most definitely not find too cute. He really didn't. 

“Then why did you not ask me?” the doctor asked.

Dean blushed.

“I was wondering…. if you were seeing somebody off barracks?”

“I am.”

Dean felt like he had been punched in the guts.

“Oh”, he said weakly.

“Balthazar.”

Thank the Fates!

“What, the wizard who lives on West Road?” The married wizard, praise be. “What could you possibly want with him?”

“Mind training. He and his mate Caspian are showing me how to focus my telepathic skills.”

So not good, so not good, so not good.....

“Oh. So.… that’s all it was, then?”

“Yes. It is very important I keep all my skills finely honed.”

“I see.”

“Including the ability to do this.”

Castiel vanished. Dean blinked, then a movement at the far end of the alley caught his eye. 

The doctor saluted him, and disappeared.

Teleportation, thought Dean. And telepathy. And he can fly. What the hell am I getting myself into?

+~+~+

Dean had Throm Barclay to thank in part for what happened next. 

During his time in Esire, Throm had expanded the barracks gymnasium, adding a large office around the western end with windows on three sides. It was far better than the ill-lit colonel’s office, and Dean soon started taking his paperwork there of an evening. It also gave him an excuse to call in at the medical centre on his way there, but that was just coincidental.

Who was he kidding?

He was working in the gym office late one evening when he heard someone quietly opening the side-door. He glanced at the clock, surprised. It was after eight. Classes should have finished before dinner, but perhaps one of the men was putting in some extra practice. He gave no more thought to it, but returned to his paperwork for the next fifteen minutes, before deciding to call it a night. He put his hand on the doorknob to leave – and froze.

It was Castiel. Dancing! And bare-chested! 

Dean had never seen anyone dance before, and if anyone had asked for his opinions on it, he'd have said it wasn't something real men did. But to watch Castiel bend and twist his supple body, leaping through the air and expressing himself through movement, just seemed so right. His movements were strong and sure, yet served somehow to also remind Dean of how fragile the pygar was. He stared for probably far too long before finally managing to think straight long enough to back away from the door.

Castiel eventually left at just after nine. Dean gave him ten minutes to be on the safe side (and for the uncomfortable bulge in his shorts to subside), then went out the back door, making his lonely way across to his room.

He didn’t get much sleep that night. But his dreams were so good!

+~+~+

Besides having to deal with Goddard (who was still trying and failing to track Castiel every day), the next month brought Dean both good news and bad news.

The good news was that he discovered the reason behind Private Tran's move to Esire. The beta was a high-level psychic, and had been getting strong visions that he had to come to the town. Five days after the gym incident, he came to Dean and confessed both this and that he had met the man of his dreams, an omega called Alfie, and that he wanted to quit the army and move in with him. Dean knew the guy as one of the barracks' suppliers, and though he was sorry to lose a good man, he knew when he was beaten. He arranged for Tran to serve two weeks' notice (four minus his holiday entitlement), after which he could move in with his new love and keep his army pension.

The bad news was that, whilst he stopped being jealous of Tran, someone else immediately took the man's place. Dean just could not catch a break!

As was customary on the smaller barracks, the camp mage was expected to cover the doctor’s rest periods. The Esire mage was an elf called Inias, a slender, solemn-looking fellow, notable for a large scar running down his face. This, Dean had learned via Castiel, was from the famous Battle of Five Ways when Throm, still at Esire, had blatantly disobeyed orders to take his men into Transoxania and repel a Curcurrian invasion, thus effectively saving the province. Dean liked Inias, and knew he was good at his job. Best of all, he was an omega, so no chance of any moves on Castiel.

The trouble was not Inias but Jefferson Thomas Woodford III, commonly (for obvious reasons) Jet. Dean had given Castiel a free hand to employ a back-up for both himself and Inias, the previous guy having left with the last doctor. Castiel’s choice, however, was definitely not to Dean’s liking. Jet was a smooth, charming dark-haired alpha, plus he turned out to be as well-educated as he was good-looking. Finding him chatting with Castiel during Dean's morning visits always set the colonel's teeth on edge, especially because their conversation was usually some way over Dean's head.

Dean was on his way back from the gym office one evening when he came across his newest employee, who was standing outside the medical centre in the dark.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as politely as he could, fervently wishing the answer would involve a request for a transfer to the Thousand Isles. Or at least the Blacklands. 

To his surprise, the normally smooth alpha seemed nervous.

“I was thinking of asking someone out on a date”, he said shyly, glancing towards the medical centre. “It’s not against barracks rules or anything, is it?”

Yes it bloody well is! Dean’s inner voice screamed.

“No, provided it doesn’t interfere in the smooth running of things”, his professional self managed to ground out. “Er, someone in there?”

“Yeah.”

Fuck!

“Well, be sure of yourself before you ask”, he hedged, whilst all the time thinking, you jerk, Dean, why didn’t you approach him first?

“Thanks, colonel. I really think he might be my soul mate.”

I hate you!

“Good luck, then.” 

He hurried back to his room, determined to figure out a way to stop this.

+~+~+

He hadn't come up with anything – at least, not anything legal – by the next morning, when he arrived for tea with his camp doctor to find Castiel looking happy. Far, far too happy. And his hair looked even more dishevelled than usual. Dean's heart sank.

“You look pretty chipper this morning?” he said inquiringly. So did you and Jet do the horizontal tango last night?

“Love!” grinned Castiel.

Dean promptly choked on his water.

“What?” he managed to gasp out eventually.

Castiel looked surprised.

“Is it that surprising?” he asked. 

Dean was crying inwardly. How could the man look so normal when his commanding officer's world was falling apart?

“Um, sorta”, he managed. “When did this happen, exactly?”

“Last night.”

Damn! He’d thought Jet was a fast mover, but even so…. 

He gritted his teeth. “Well, I suppose I should say congratulations”, he managed, trying not to sound insincere.

Castiel looked at him, clearly puzzled.

“Why?” he asked. “I just provided the room.”

Dean's romantic hopes, about to be laid six feet under, suddenly twitched.

“What?”

“For Jet and Inias.”

Dean seemed to be having trouble breathing.

“Jet and Inias?”

“Of course.”

“Jet and Inias?” He knew he sounded dumb, but his brain seemed to have stopped working for some reason.

Castiel was looking hard at him. Dean stared back.

“Yes”, said the doctor. “Inias was the one who needed persuading. He thought no-one could see past his scar. But Jet persuaded him otherwise.”

“Oh”, Dean said in a small voice. “That’s good, then.”

His voice seemed an octave higher than usual for some reason, and he was blushing fiercely. He hoped Castiel hadn’t noticed, but the slight crinkling around the eyes told him he knew all right. What had he done to deserve such torture? Surely things couldn't get any worse?

In hindsight, he really should have known better to have that particular thought.


	14. Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean does something incredibly stupid. Even by his standards.

Two days later, Dean staggered into the medical centre, one hand clutching his shoulder and the other his thigh, trying to stop the flow of blood which was leaving his body at both points like it couldn’t wait to get out. Castiel took one look at him, then hurried him over to one of the beds. 

“What happened?” he asked anxiously, as he removed Dean’s blood-soaked top.

“Throwing-knives”, Dean said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the pain. “That idiot Lanek decided to do some practising with his men behind the main office. I came out of the door and got one in the shoulder and another in the thigh!”

“Take your trousers off.”

Dean started.

“I kinda…”

And presto! his trousers were in Castiel’s hand! Worse, this was the one day he’d gone commando! The Fates truly hated him! And what made it worse was that his complete nakedness seemed to have precisely zero effect on the pygar, who carried on dressing his wounds and wiping down the blood as if nothing had happened. 

Then just when Dean thought things couldn’t get any worse, his body decided it actually quite liked being handled in this way, and he got a boner. Made only worse by the almost-smile that crinkled the edges of Castiel’s eyes, and the fact his only other reaction was to gently place a towel across Dean’s upper legs.

“All done now”, the doctor said, after what seemed like an eternity. “But I want to check the wound again tomorrow, just to make sure no infection has set in. Lie down for a bit.“ He paused for a moment, before adding slyly, “both of you.”

Dean just wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“Thanks”, he said weakly. “Again.”

The pygar smiled, then went into the other room to, presumably, wash his hands. Dean lay back and cursed his body for betraying him like this, trying to ignore the barely-stifled chuckles that were filtering through the half-closed doorway.

+~+~+

How exactly do you ask what is probably the most powerful being in the planet why he let you get knifed, without upsetting him?

“Words are usually a good way”, came a familiar voice.

Dean did not fall off the couch. He stumbled. Definitely.

“I got stabbed! Twice!”

“I know. They were aiming for your heart. I deflected the shots.”

Dean stared.

“Who?” he asked desperately.

“Sergeant Lanek and his accomplice, Private Brown. They wanted to kill you.”

Dean gaped.

“But why?”

“Curcurrian agents, of course.”

“Of course? How ‘of course’? And why didn’t Goddard know about this?”

“He did. He chose to let them go ahead. Then he'd have had double the credit, exposing them and getting rid of you. The Council of Generals is never fond of popular and effective leaders, because they themselves are neither.”

Dean’s head swam.

“Where are they now? Brown and Lanek, I mean.”

“Dead.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that Dean blinked in surprise.

“How?” he managed.

Braton studied his fingernails.

“They got away in a fishing-boat, planning to sail home round Cape South”, he said laconically. “Unfortunately they ran into a small and extremely localized freak storm just after setting out. More unfortunately, they then both got tangled in a set of ropes just as they went overboard, and even more unfortunately, this all happened just as a group of sharks was passing.”

Dean stared at him.

“That was... unfortunate!”

“I told you, Dean. I’m here to try to make sure you meet your destiny. They were…. in the way.”

“But you still let me get stabbed!”

“Only slight wounds. And you got treated by the man of your dreams.” Braton smirked. “He definitely knows how you feel about him now!”

Dean groaned. He just had to remind him of that.

“Ever heard of subtlety?” he muttered.

“Of course”, Braton smiled. “I plan to be around for a long time, so I might even try it some day. Just not yet. So long!”

He vanished. Dean sighed, and turned his attention to the one remaining problem.

Goddard.

+~+~+

As things turned out, Braton solved the Goddard problem for him too. In his own inimitable way.

It was five days later. Dean was almost finished drilling 'C' Company on the parade ground when the spymaster sidled up to him, a folder in his hands. Reluctantly, he told Sergeant Miles to finish up, and turned to face his unwanted visitor.

“What is it, Goddard?” he asked, as politely as he could.

The reply shook him to the core.

“I’ve been thinking about our new doctor”, the spymaster said, the ever-present smirk wider than ever. “He’s definitely hiding something. So I’m submitting this report to my superiors in Vacore, and they’ll soon be inviting him over for a nice little chat.”

Dean froze. Few people survived the Inquisition, and those that did were never the same afterward. Goddard smirked even wider, and started away towards the main gate. Dean went to follow him, only to find his feet seemed to be stuck to the ground.

“What the.…?”

I do not like this person. He needs to be taught a lesson.

Bray, Dean thought. He stopped struggling at once, and watched silently as the spymaster walked away from him. 

Goddard got as far as the middle of the parade ground before it happened. A small black cloud appeared out of nowhere right above the spy-master's head, moving a little until he noticed it and looked up. The next second, a lightning bolt reached down and struck him in a blinding flash. The cloud swiftly vanished, and all that was left of Evelyn Goddard was a pair of smoking boots and a pile of ash.

Dean stared, aghast. That was a lesson?

He pulled himself together and ordered Sergeant Miles to dismiss a stunned 'C' Company. And to remember to send one of them out with a dustpan and brush.

Later that evening Azazel, Goddard’s number two and almost as unpleasant, told him that his late boss had quite obviously been mistaken about Doctor Novak, and with the investigation folder now ash, there was no point going on with it. Absolutely none at all. Dean managed not to smile at the fact that, throughout the meeting, Azazel kept covertly glancing upwards. 

+~+~+

Two months after this, Dean called in at Castiel's office to find him reading a letter. This was unusual as it was tea-making time, and for Castiel to alter his schedule was rather akin to the sun deciding going from west to east would make a nice change. 

“It's from Gabriel”, he said, as Dean sat down opposite him. “He and Sam are... doing very well.”

There was something in that statement that didn't ring true. Sam had been evasive in his last letter, too. Dean smelled trouble. 

“Why don't you invite them up one weekend?” Castiel said. “Gabriel says they'll be busy for the next few months or so, but it would be nice to see them both after that.”

It wasn't that Dean didn't want to see Sam – he did, much more than he would have ever admitted. It was the strange idea of Castiel offering up a suggestion as to his life. Almost as if he was offering some psychiatric advice to a patient in need of cheering up. For some reason this annoyed the colonel. He grunted.

“Fine. I'll send Sammy a letter and see if we can fix something up.”

He was probably worrying over nothing, Dean thought as he returned to his room. Sammy wouldn't keep anything major from his own brother.

He did not know just how wrong he was in that belief.

+~+~+

Exactly one month after he had sent his letter off to his brother, Dean was surprised to receive an unexpected visitor in his quarters. Inias looked decidedly anxious, which was unusual of late; he’d been looking much happier since he’d been with Jet.

“I’m worried about Doctor Novak”, he said, declining Dean's invitation to sit.

Dean tensed.

“What’s wrong with him?” he demanded, rather abruptly. If Castiel was ill, he himself should have noticed.

“He’s been a little withdrawn of late”, Inias said, frowning. “I think he’s been overdoing it. And I’m sure he’s been missing meals. I’ve asked Matt in the kitchens; he says he rarely sees him, and stuff he sends over comes back almost untouched. Jet asked him if anything was wrong, but he said no.”

“Have you any ideas?” Dean asked, now worried.

Inias blushed.

“I’ve tried reading up a bit about the pagari”, he admitted, making it sound almost as if he’d been doing something illicit. “But there’s so little to go on. I’ve just noticed he’s got steadily more depressed this last week.”

Dean thought about that. It was true; Castiel was never one for sparkling conversation, but he had been more withdrawn during their morning meetings over the last few days.

“I know someone who might be able to help”, he said. “I’ll call him.”

+~+~+

Dean had never thought he would live to see the day a god looked flustered. Like Braton did right now.

“It’s complicated”, he said, looking away from Dean.

“Try uncomplicating it for me”, Dean said patiently.

“Cas…. he’s not like other pagari.”

“How?”

Braton was suddenly close to him. Dean flinched.

“This goes no further than this room, okay?”

“Sure”, Dean said nervously. “I promise.”

“Cas’ parentage, he’s.... he's not your average pygar. His body’s approaching its season, but because of who he is – and what he is – things aren’t happening as they should.”

“And that explains things how?”

“I can’t tell you everything; I wish I could. But I can help Cas a bit. Or at least you can.”

“How?” Dean asked eagerly. “I'll do anything.”

Braton produced a small bottle of clear liquid from his cloak.

“When he goes to visit Balthazar this afternoon, sprinkle some of this round the medical centre”, the god said. “Use the dropper; one drop in each place and no more than ten drops for the whole medical centre, and repeat every other day. It contains a suppressant, which will delay his season, and at least stop him feeling the way he is now. It shouldn't affect you as a human, but if you get any on your hands, wash it off at once.”

“I'll do that”, Dean promised. Though he saw that the god still looked worried. “What else?”

“His season will still happen, Dean. Like with Gabriel, he’s at risk the minute it starts, and there’s usually less than an hour’s warning.”

“So what do we do? Get his brother down here?”

“No. Close family are normally okay, but Gabriel’s busy just now.”

“Too busy to help his own brother?” Dean said incredulously.

“He has certain pressing matters to attend to”, Braton said evasively. “Look, Dean, I’ve always stood by Cas the same way I’ve stood by you. I haven’t let either of you down yet, have I?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the stabbing incident, but the god looked genuinely worried, and anything bad enough to worry probably the most powerful being on the planet had to be really bad. Dean bit back his comment.

“No, you haven’t”, he admitted. “Okay. I trust you.”

With the man I love, he added silently. But he was sure, as he looked at Braton, that the god knew exactly what he was thinking.

+~+~+

Two weeks later, Dean was on his way out of his quarters for his morning medical visit when he found his way blocked. 

“Oh. Hullo, Bray.”

“Cas’ season. It’s started.”

“Damn! Is he okay?”

“His body’s running way above its normal speed, and he’s sexually frustrated like a barracks full of rutting alphas. But he's coping. I’ve brought his brothers, Mike and Luke, over from Irilia to help him through it.”

Meet the family, Dean thought bitterly. If only things were at that stage. Braton smiled knowingly.

“The two of them were more than happy to help out, particularly as they owe Cas for a favour he did them not so long ago. Mike’s keeping him company for now, whilst Luke is helping Jet and Inias establish a temporary medical centre in the gym. It’s better for Cas if he stays in the room where the season broke.”

“I see.”

“He's been asking for you.”

Dean stared at him in confusion.

“What? Why?”

“Like any heat, the season is designed to make the omega want to mate”, Braton explained. “You have more interaction with him that anyone else on the barracks, so naturally he focusses on you. It’s best if you and everyone else keeps their distance, of course. Anyone who's not blood is fair game for him right now.”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

Braton vanished, and Dean went on his way, trying not to think about a desperately needy omega wanting sex. 

It wasn't easy.

+~+~+  
   
The next three days were sheer torture for Dean. Knowing Castiel wanted him, and yet knowing he had to keep his distance for the pygar’s (and his own) sake, it was almost too much. By day three, his emotions were some way past fried and still moving.

Castiel's elder brothers also unnerved him. They were alpha mates, Dean knew, which was unusual, but he never saw them together, as at least one of them stayed with their brother at all times, taking turns so the other could eat, relax or sleep. Dean saw both of them in the canteen at various times; Michael looked at him uncertainly, whilst Lucifer looked like he’d really like to thump him, but was (barely) restraining himself. 

By the fourth day Castiel's season was almost over, although Inias told Dean the doctor had been left exhausted by it. Dean didn't know that the mage and Jet had set up a rota to sit with him so the Novaks could have lunch together until the twins appeared at his table that day, Michael next to him and Lucifer across the table. It was exceedingly rare for Dean Winchester to feel fear, but this was one of those times.

“Oh, er, hi guys”, he muttered. “Thanks for coming over, and all you’ve done.”

“Castiel is our brother”, Michael said quietly, whilst Lucifer attacked a chicken leg. “He has been a good friend to both of us.”

“The best”, Lucifer went on. “And we only want the best for him.”

They both stared hard at Dean, who felt increasingly uncomfortable.

“I want what’s best for him too”, he said, a little defensively.

“He called out for you every day”, Michael said.

“Almost every hour”, Lucifer added. “And never anyone else.”

Dean couldn’t help thinking how well the two blended together, even to the point of finishing each other’s sentences. They were also equally focussed; Michael’s hazel-brown eyes and Lucifer’s pale lilac ones both zeroing in on the warrior. He squirmed in his seat.

“I would never do anything to harm Cas”, he said.

“I would hope not”, Michael said.

“Indeed”, Lucifer added.

They both stared meaningfully at Dean, and he felt certain that, even after they’d returned to Irilia in a few days’ time, that wouldn’t be far enough to save him if he did anything to harm their little brother. He shuddered.

“Have they said when I can see him?” he asked hopefully.

The mates exchanged a knowing glance.

“Jet says tomorrow would be best”, Michael said.

“He’ll be back to normal by then”, Lucifer went on. “He just needs lots of rest.”

“Good”, Dean said. “I’d better be getting on, then. Bye.”

He left the canteen hurriedly. Not running. Just a fast walk.

+~+~+  
   
He didn’t know quite what to expect when he came to see Castiel for their regular morning drinks the following day, but all in all things went off reasonably well. The doctor seemed almost serene, now his season had passed. He didn’t mention his calling out for Dean over the past few days, and Dean didn’t see how he could exactly slip it into their conversation.

“Your brothers are… interesting”, he said, sipping his water.

“Mike and Luke were terrors growing up”, Castiel smiled fondly. “They competed right from the word go, and were always trying to outdo each other. Then, when I was about fourteen, it suddenly went from competition to love. My… father didn’t take it very well. He threw them out.”

Pause before the word 'father', Dean noted. And Braton had been evasive about the boy's parenthood as well. Interesting.

“What happened?” he asked.

“My uncle Luri lived nearby. He took them in for a while, then arranged for them to have a house in the new settlement at Yellowbury. They’re doing very well there. Mike’s a teacher and Luke’s a doctor, like me. When my parents split up, my papa went to live with them, but he's since remarried a thorn from the north, and moved to his place in Whiteleigh, the only pagari-thorn town. He's expecting and due in a few weeks, otherwise he'd have come over.”

“Your brothers owe your uncle a lot, then.”

“I put in a good word for them when it all went down. Luri taught me a lot when I was growing up. I miss him, though I sometimes feel he’s still around in some strange way.”

“I’m still surprised Gabriel wasn’t the one to come down and take care of you”, Dean said. “At least he’s not on another continent.”

“Oh, he’s busy.”

“Doing what?” Dean asked at once.

To his surprise, Castiel blushed.

“Cas? Is something wrong with Gabriel? It’s not Sammy, is it?”

“Calm down, Dean. The last letter my brother wrote me, he was fine. Just…busy.”

Dean was increasingly sure there was something Castiel wasn’t telling him here, and equally sure the doctor wouldn’t tell him no matter how hard he pushed.

“I’ll look forward to them both coming down, then”, he said, resignedly, wondering exactly what was really going on.

“So will I”, Castiel smiled.

+~+~+

At least Dean soon had a date for when his curiosity would be assuaged, for the day after his talk with Castiel, a letter arrived from Sam asking if he and Gabriel could come down soon. Dean immediately wrote back offering a set of dates, then promptly resumed worrying, even when the date was finally confirmed. On the day itself he was, annoyingly, delayed in a meeting with the town council, and arrived to find just Sam waiting for him. This was good, as it meant he could be as emotional as he liked and then threaten his brother with unending pain if he blabbed. The two finally drew apart, both grinning.

“Dean, it's great to see you again!” Sam smiled. “You're looking wonderful. And we keep hearing great things about how you've turned around the barracks here.”

Dean blushed.

“Yeah, well, all talk. How's married life treating you? He stopped pranking you yet?”

Sam's expression promptly went so mushy that Dean almost threw up.

“Oh, Dean, you so don't know what you're missing! I've never felt so safe and secure. And the sex....”

“TMI, brother!” 

Sam grinned.

“So how about you?” he asked. “Anyone on the horizon? Cas said he was worried you were feeling down lately.”

He noticed. Fuck! Or is that good?

“Nothing to report...” he began, then saw a horribly familiar look on his brother's face. The famed 'lost puppy' look, which Sam always pulled out when he wanted to tell Dean something big, most likely that he would not like.

“What?” he growled suspiciously.

Sam turned to the bedroom door.

“Gabe, come out.”

The door opened and the Novak brothers came through, Gabriel leading. Dean, however, barely saw either of them. His attention was riveted by the small bundle in Gabriel's arms. The elder pygar came up to him.

”Dean”, he said gravely, “we'd like you to meet Jared Dean 'JD' Winchester. Your nephew.”

He gently handed the baby over to Dean, who stared at it like he had never seen one before. His emotions were now looking fondly back into the distance at fried, and had just passed totally scrambled.

Dean did not cry. And if he did, those were manly tears.

+~+~+

Later that evening, Gabriel and Castiel took JD off, leaving Dean and Sam alone. Dean didn't miss the significance of this, nor the fact that his brother still had something he obviously wanted to get off his chest.

“Dean, I..... I want to say something.”

Fuck! Sam had spotted his feelings for Castiel, and Dean was about to get The Lecture.

“It's about us”, Sam said, looking everywhere but at his brother. “I... I never really thanked you for all you did for me when I was growing up. You never put yourself first, and you were always there for me. I was an ungrateful bitch, and I know that now.”

“Does being thrown to the wall by one of the most powerful beings on the planet have anything to do with this?” Dean asked nervously, because this was verging dangerously towards 'feelings stuff'.

“Partly”, Sam admitted. “And since I've become a dad, I've come to appreciate everything you went through in bringing me up. I owe you so much.”

His brother paused, and Dean could see how dangerously close he was to being overcome with emotion. He wasn't far behind him.

“Couldn't well let a big moose like you starve, could I?” he said dismissively.

“I want you to have this.”

Sam handed over a small object he had been keeping hidden in his huge hands. It was a wallet, and as it fell open Dean could see it contained a single drawing, a miniature copy of one he knew well. Uncle Bobby had had the original done not long after Sam's birth, and it showed the young Dean holding his baby brother, looking down protectively at him. He gulped. 

“You've always been my real father, not John”, Sam said gravely. “I was just too stupid to realize it before. I'm sorry.”

Dean couldn't think of any words, so he just went over and sat next to his brother, the two of them hugging each other as hard as they could.

“Thanks, Sammy”, he muttered into the still ridiculously long hair. “I'm so proud the way you turned out. You're a credit to me.”

Okay, there may have been some tears. But they were on both sides, so that didn't count.

+~+~+

The three visitors left the next day, but not before Gabriel had a talk with his brother.

“Nothing yet?”

“I am beginning to suspect he is scared of me.”

Gabriel looked thoughtful.

“Dean is an alpha warrior, after all. They're not usually supposed to get emotionally involved, working with so many people.”

“He loves Sam, though.”

“Yeah, but that's because he has to. Brotherly love and all that jazz.”

“Do you think he could ever love me?”

Gabriel laughed. 

“Oh, it's a bit late for that!”

Castiel looked at him in surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Cas, he's been in love with you since forever! The way he looks at you when you talk, it's the same way I look at Sam. He'd do anything for you. He just doesn't know how to start things off. And yesterday....”

“Yes?”

“Something he did when Sam explained about the bond, and what it means to us. He went over to the window and just stared out.”

“So?”

“That window only faces out onto the medical centre. He was thinking of you, Cas. He loves you all right. He just doesn't know how to cope with it. I really hope he doesn't just go and do something stupid.”

Six days later, Dean did something stupid. 

+~+~+

It was all the fault of that damn painting. 

Dean had called in at the medical centre after lunch, knowing Castiel was out but needing a soldier's medical record. He had found a painting, which the doctor had clearly been working on, standing on an easel in the corner. He immediately recognized it as the full-sized version of the beach scene, the initial sketch of which had been the first piece of art Castiel had ever allowed him to see. It showed a sun-warmed sandy shore beneath azure skies, with long grasses partially covering a red house at the back of the beach. The doctor had admitted that owning a house like that was a long-term dream of his.

Except the painting was now different from the original sketch in one important aspect. It had gained two small figures, both pagari, walking away hand-in-hand towards the house, their wings overlapping. The shorter of the two was obviously Castiel, given the jet-black wings and dark, untidy hair, but the taller had sandy-brown hair and wings in a strange shade of grey-green. 

Dean's heart sank. He just knew Castiel was somehow painting a future here, a future in which he and this strange pygar lived happily together in their beach house. A future that, whatever else could be said about it, did not in anyway include Dean.

If only he had looked a little more closely at the second figure, he might have realized something that would have made his actions later than evening rather different.

If only....

+~+~+

Dean never knew how he got from the medical centre back to his quarters. He only knew he had screwed things up 110%. And then some.

It had started out like most other evenings for the past few months, dinner at the medical centre during which he and Castiel had calmly discussed the day-to-day running of the barracks, with Dean's inner voice screaming at him to just grab the smaller man, pin him onto one of the beds and let him know what it was like to be thoroughly ravished.

Except that this evening, with the memory of that painting still fresh in his mind, Dean had actually listened to his inner voice. And to make it worse, Castiel had not only let him, but had been an active – make that very active – participant, with the result they both ended up in the pygar's bed, and the medical centre would need some serious tidying up in the morning. If not several hours with a repair crew.

And as for Dean's emotions... well. Never mind fried or totally scrambled, you might just as well have stuck a fork in him and declared him done. He could not have felt happier.

It was great. Every single thing about it was great. Dean had never felt so great.

Then he went and screwed it up.

Castiel had turned to him as they lay there, had fondly ran his fingers up Dean's chest, and then whispered those three, terrible words:

“I love you”.

And that was it. Dean had bolted from the room.

The thought of actually sharing his feelings, sharing his heart, being with someone for more than a one-night stand – it scared him to death. He spent the best part of an hour hiding in his room before his emotions stopped running on overdrive, and he began to actually feel like the heel he was for abandoning the man who loved him....

The man who loved him....

Dean pulled himself together, and walked as calmly as he could back to the medical centre.

“Cas?” he called tentatively.

The room was conspicuously empty. A single black feather lay on the rumpled bed. There was a note pinned to the wall by the mirror.

Act Two. Knowing how it feels to have lost him.

To have lost the man he loved, just for three little words.

“Please”, he whispered to the empty room. “Cas?”

There was silence. Dean picked up the feather and went sadly back to his room, where he broke down and cried.


	15. On Another Planet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Braton has to rely on a certain scruffy-haired actor on another planet across the galaxy to help start setting things to rights.

Castiel had no idea where he was.

When Dean had fled the room, he had just laid there for what seemed like an age, hoping it was all some terrible nightmare, and that he would awake to find everything was back to normal again. He had been so sure that Dean had loved him the same way he loved the handsome warrior.

How could he have been so wrong?

Slowly his senses returned. He was lying on his back on what felt like sand, and the sound of nearby waves suggested he was on some kind of beach. He pulled himself to his feet, and looked around. A gentle salt-scented wind blew off the sea, and the tall grasses, forever beyond the reach of the tide, waved gently in the breeze.

That was when it hit him. The painting. That ideal future he had painted for himself. He was actually here!

Except, of course, there was no grey-green-winged pygar waiting for him. Figured.

He looked inland, and saw the predictable red house with its second floor poking up over the tall grasses. He shook the sand out of his wings and began to walk slowly towards it. The path from the beach led through a gap in the grasses, and he walked along the side of the house to the main entrance.

Where he stopped. He stared for a moment before huffing a laugh. The house name-board was stuck in the ground, tilting at a rakish angle, and the inscription on it was the title of his picture. Oh, the irony!

A 'Safe Harbor' indeed!

+~+~+

Metatron didn't know what was worse; losing that idiot pygar when he was so close to success, or his Earth ally's annoying calmness when he broke the news to him.

“You're up the creek as well!” he snapped at last. “No seventh item means you're stuck there for good!”

“Calm down, friend”, Gadreel said soothingly. “All is not lost.”

“That idiot pygar is!”

“Actually, he's here.”

Metatron gaped.

“What? Fuck! There's no way I can get him back!”

There was a pointed silence.

“What aren't you telling me?” Metatron said suspiciously.

“He hasn't lost his powers”, Gadreel said quietly.

“But that's impossible! Only gods can do that!”

“And he's the same age as when he left your world. I don't know how he's managing it or how long it will last, but something very weird is going on.” The portal flickered, and Gadreel uttered an oath. “Plus he's damaged the system when he barrelled through it. I have to....”

The portal flickered and collapsed back down to a single point, causing Metatron to scowl at it. His day was just going from bad to worse, and if as Gadreel said the system had been rendered temporarily unstable, it would be dangerous to meddle with it. All that power and glory, gone because that idiot's future mate had lost his bottle. His day just could not get any worse.

Or so he thought. 

+~+~+

The man sighed as he pulled himself upright in the bed. Just why had he come here? True, they had finished shooting the yet-to-be-broadcast season finale – what a shock that had been! - and he often took his family to the house to mark special occasions like this, but instead of returning home like he would normally have done, he had texted his wife to say he was going ahead to get the house set up for a long weekend. He had never done this before, but somehow he felt he just had to be at the beach house as a matter of urgency.

He sat up, flexed his muscles, and groaned. Damn it; Castiel, Angel of the Lord was getting old! Forty this year, as his fellow cast members so kindly kept reminding him (though his co-stars weren't that far behind!). He got up, pulled on a blue dressing-gown and made his way downstairs, thinking pleasurably of a steaming cup of green chai.

He reached the bottom of the stairs - and promptly froze. Someone was standing outside his front door, their outline visible through the frosted glass. Strange; he hadn't heard the doorbell, and the man wasn't knocking or anything. The actor began to feel distinctly uneasy. He was about to reach for the draw with the gun in it when, with a creak, the door slowly swung open, and he saw who was standing the other side of it. And his jaw promptly dropped.

It was.... Castiel! Complete with two huge black wings! His first thought was that this was another of Jared's and Jensen's pranks, but when the... angel looked at him through those familiar blue eyes, he knew somehow that this was all too real. Then the visitor staggered forward a couple of steps, and all but collapsed into his arms, causing the man to stumble backwards. And the moment the guy touched him, he felt his body seem to just switch off. His last memory was that, in some weird way, the angel had fallen not on top of him but inside him....

+~+~+

Braton landed gently on the beach, and the portal crackled shut behind him. It was eerily quiet, the only sound being the soft murmur of the ebb tide. He strode quickly towards the house; he did not want to risk any unnecessary spells such as teleporting, even in such an isolated place as this. At least he had a few hours before the man's family would arrive, after that unfortunate incident with the two flat tyres at the restaurant. 

As for Dean Winchester..... Braton trembled with anger. He had had one chance to do it right, and he'd screwed up! Even though he'd been expecting it, the god was still furious. The warrior would deserve everything that came his way as a result!

At the gate, he caught sight of the house name-board, pinned up on a nearby tree, and sighed in relief. Thank the Fates, he was in the right place, though worryingly, the front door was wide open. He moved silently towards it, and stepped into the hallway. 

“Oh fuck!”

The same man he had stood over as a baby forty years earlier lay before him, writhing on the floor in agony, a pair of black wings flickering in and out of existence behind him. Braton winced at the sight. Even with the protections the god had built in all those years ago, the human brain was not built to survive having what amounted to two souls in one body. He hesitated only briefly before risking a small spell, and the man subsided into sleep. 

Braton walked over to him, noticing as he did the set of framed pictures on the wall. One of them showed a trench-coated pygar, with two black wings projecting behind him. The god smiled. As he'd hoped, this man had become the Earth equivalent of his son, which had allowed their souls to find each other across the galaxy. The man basically was Castiel – including, Braton was amused to note, still an exceptionally bad taste in sweaters; one with about ten colours too many was draped over a chair in the adjoining kitchen. It was truly horrendous! 

He laid the man out on the carpet, and sat down beside him before gently placing two fingers on his forehead, slipping effortlessly into his dreams.

Who are you? What are you? What's happening? 

He could feel the man's panic. He wrapped his powers around the writhing emotions and gently calmed them.

My name is Braton Stone. The boy you took from the beach is my son, Castiel. You saved his life.

Cas – is real?

Yes. Almost supernatural, isn't it?

Somehow the human threw him the equivalent of a mental scowl. Braton chuckled.

So..... if you're Cas' father – what exactly are you? God?

Braton did not answer, but placed his other hand over his first, and concentrated.

What are you doing? The man was panicking again.

Relax, Misha. You're quite safe. My son found you on this world, and his body merged with yours for a time. I am merely separating the two of you. Both you and he will be fine once this is over.

Are you saying you.... made me Castiel? You mean my whole life.....

Stop right there. I may have nudged your life a bit at times, but even the most powerful beings in the universe cannot control a person's emotions. Everything you achieved and have yet to achieve, has been and will be yours by right. All I could do was make people see you for what you really are – someone truly beautiful. 

Oh. Braton could feel the embarrassment. 

Sorry I didn't deal with that taste in sweaters, though.

Hey!

Braton sniggered.

I must go now, and you will remember this only as a dream. But I shall watch over you and yours for many years to come. I owe you my son's life, and one day I shall repay that debt in full. I promise. Until then, farewell, my.... angel.

Braton?

Yes?

Is there.. are there other characters from the show in your world?

There are.

Do your Dean and Cas ever.....

They're still writing the script for that one, Misha. But I shall let you know how it ends. After all, without you, there would no longer be a Castiel.

Braton removed his fingers and broke the connection. The human slumbered on, a smile creasing his features. The god lifted him gently, and as he did a second figure stayed sleeping on the floor, its wings limp behind it. He carried the human carefully upstairs, making sure he was laid comfortably in his bed before returning to his son. Reining in his emotions, he took up his son and stared fixedly at a point next to the sideboard. A portal flickered obediently into life, and the god stepped carefully through it. 

+~+~+

It was definitely the weirdest dream he had ever had, the actor thought as he made his way downstairs. Perhaps he'd been in acting too long if he was imagining things like that! And how the hell had he ended up sleeping in his dressing-gown?

The answer-phone was flashing, and he ran through three messages, the only important one being from Vicky to tell him that the car had sprung two flats at the McDonalds near their house, and she would be there in a few hours. Back to normality, he thought with a smile, turning to go into the main room. 

Then he froze. 

There was a set of faint sandy footprints from the door to halfway across the hallway, before they vanished. And lying half under the sideboard was what was most undeniably a small, dark grey feather. 

He stared for a few moments, then silently went and fetched a dustpan and brush. He smiled as he cleaned up the sand, which he deposited outside, before taking the feather and locking it away in his desk draw.

Who on earth would believe him, anyway?

+~+~+

Geryon.

A largely uninhabited world, whose crazy weather made it unwelcome to just about everyone. A scorching sun, frequent earthquakes and storms, a planet locked so that half was in eternal night and the other half in scorching day. A land of raw, uncontrolled magic. The last place any self-respecting space (or time) traveller would visit.

Unfortunately, also Braton's first stop of three on his way back to Arcania. Being unable to use the permanent portal in Metatron's office meant a temporary one, which meant no direct return. Besides, he had things to do, so even if someone had spotted him leaving, they could not track him here.

The cave was almost as unwelcoming, but at least it provided protection from the sun and the ongoing sandstorms. Fortunately there were no hostile life-forms to worry about; apparently even evolution knew a lost cause when it saw one. Braton laid his son gently down on the sandy floor, then stood up. He would have liked to mount a guard spell across the cave entrance just in case, but for what he was about to do – or attempt - this was impossible. His efforts so far had seriously drained him, and he needed everything he had left for this.

Omegas, like all creatures on Arcania, depended on their magical auras for their continued existence. Taking Castiel back in his current state of weakness might kill him, so Braton had no choice but to try to 'recharge' his aura using his own. They were blood, which would help, but the real problem was that his own aura was still weak from all that galaxy-hopping. His son might, as he had always feared, be the death of him. Although he did have one trump card.

He began by gently fusing his own aura with his son's, slowly but surely recharging him. Then, as gently as he could, he eased forward the tiny shard of Dean's aura that he had taken only a few months before. If, as he thought, the two were indeed soul mates, then their auras should be compatible.....

The force of the explosion threw him across the room, but he managed to keep enough about him to see that Castiel's wings had shot out, and that he was rapidly increasing in power. The pygar gasped and writhed on the floor for a few moments, before relaxing into a deep sleep. The god staggered over to a corner of the room and promptly collapsed there, panting heavily. He would be weak for many hours yet, but that didn't matter. Castiel was safe. He was alive! And the only thing that mattered to Braton right now was his son.

+~+~+

Castiel was having a nightmare. At least, it had to be a nightmare; he couldn't remember how it had all started. At one point he had been falling through what seemed to be an endless tunnel, before, bizarrely, he was being held by – well, himself! Still, at least that proved it had to be a dream. 

Then he was rising again, this time being carried by 'himself' (he really needed to stop eating cheese before bedtime!). He snuggled into 'his' chest as close as he could, and could feel his bearer shaking for some reason. Though he willed himself to wake up, something was holding him under, though some way back up the tunnel they reached a sort of plateau, and his rescuer placed him gently onto a bed. 

Where am I? he wondered.

Safe.

The voice echoed strangely inside his head. Though he knew his eyes were shut, he could somehow see his rescuer sat on the other bed. 

Braton?

Hullo, Cas.

Where is this place?

It's called Tarabulus. It's a planet, many millions of miles from Arcania.

You brought me here? Why?

What do you remember, Cas?

Nothing much. I was in the medical centre, Dean was... oh.

Braton sighed.

I'm sorry, Cas. That was real. You somehow opened a portal to Earth and went through it.

But don't people age if they do that?

You didn't. I always told you that you were special. Now you just need sleep. We're having to travel across time and space to get home, and it's taking it out of both of us.

I'm not sure I want to go home, Braton. 

We'll sort out your problems when we get there, I promise.

Castiel sniffed mournfully. 

Thanks, Braton. Sometimes you're like a father to me.

Braton tensed.

Was that too much? I'm sorry if...

No, Cas. You just took me by surprise. Thank you. It was a lovely thing to say.

Braton?

Uh huh?

Why... why did you save me?

The god stared at him for a moment.

Because, Castiel James Novak, I am your meredi, or as they say on Earth, your guardian angel. I would give everything, up to and including my life, to protect you. Now, we're both tired, so let's get some sleep, eh?

Castiel was shocked at the revelation, but still felt himself slipping back into a welcome oblivion again. Besides, he had an uneasy feeling that this whole thing was far from over.

He was so right.

+~+~+

When he finally made it to Arcania, Braton was exhausted. But he had one more stop to make before going home and facing his husband. A husband to whom he had denied the truth for far too long.

The barn was at first sight, nothing special. The farmer who had had it built here could not have known that, centuries before, this had been the centre of a giant stone circle, the only evidence for which was the strange fact that anything he stored inside the building never went bad. But on a magical world, that sort of thing just gets accepted. Fortunately he had made sure that, when they had been travelling down to Esire all those months ago, Castiel and Dean had stopped here for a short rest.

The god took something out of his pocket and placed it carefully under a loose floorboard. Then he picked up his son again and left.

+~+~+

Braton arrived back at Fraternity Castle with not so much a fanfare as a near-collapse. He felt wrecked, but he held his son safely in his arms. And standing in front of him was his husband, looking at him anxiously. Braton looked at him, then smiled slightly.

“I'm taking him to the grey bedroom”, he said. “He needs more rest, and come to that, so do I.”

“Sure thing”, Andros said, still looking anxious. “Are you... all right?”

“I will be. I just need sleep. I'll talk to you later.”

He walked off towards the stairs, staggering only once. Andros looked after him uncertainly. 

+~+~+

The god stared at the frail figure on the bed before him. Castiel was actually half an inch taller than his father, but he didn't look it, especially now as he was curled up into a ball, shivering and faintly whimpering. Braton reached tentatively into his mind, and winced. His son was recalling the medical centre.

“Damn it, son!”, the god whispered. “Stop hurting yourself like this! Stop hurting me!”

His son continued to shake, and Braton felt a curious pain in his gut. He desperately needed rest himself, but he knew he still wasn't strong enough to deal with his son's nightmares at a distance. Reluctantly he toed his boots off and slipped in behind his son, holding him gently. Castiel shuddered again, but moved back into his father, and seemed to relax. 

Braton knew he should leave him once the nightmares had quieted down, but he really was just too tired. He locked his mind into his son's to make sure he didn't have any more bad dreams, and slipped gratefully into a rare sleep, slowly recharging his own drained aura from the castle's innate magical field. Even in that he could sense his husband's worry, but that would have to wait. His son came first.

+~+~+

Dean knew he shouldn’t do what he was about to do, but he had no choice. He'd prayed to Braton, but had nothing back. He needed help, and in particular, he needed his little brother. Nothing could be worse than the way he felt now.

He was about to discover how wrong he could be.

The army hotline was a spell that basically enabled any army commander to talk to any other commander anywhere in Oxania. It was strictly for use in emergencies only, so Dean knew he could face severe consequences for using it for private purposes. But right now, he just didn’t care. He had to talk to someone about this, and he had to hope he could somehow persuade the Governor-General of Transoxania to let him do so.

Throm did not sound pleased when he heard Dean’s explanation for his call.

“Dean….”, he began, sounding exasperated. Then he stopped.

Dean could hear someone talking to Throm in the background. To his surprise he recognized Valerian’s voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but he somehow knew Throm’s mate was speaking up for him. After a while, the general spoke again.

“Val has gone to fetch him. Try to keep what you have to say to a minimum. And I am not logging this call.”

The silence that followed seemed interminable, but in reality it was less than three minutes before he heard Sam’s worried voice. His first words were not what Dean wanted to hear.

“Dean! What have you done to Castiel?”

The colonel gasped.

“How did you know?” he demanded.

“Gabe. He’s heartbroken. His bond with Castiel, it's.... gone.”

Dean fell silent. Surely that could only mean one thing?

“What did you do?” Sam asked again. His voice sounded terrible.

Dean tried to explain, though when he came to his flight he was so emotional he had to stop for a few moments to compose himself. Sam listened patiently. 

“I know you’re hurting, Dean, but you’ve brought much of it on yourself”, Sam said gravely when he had finished. “And you’ve really hurt Gabe. I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s like all the joy that makes him what he is has been drained away. He’s just lying there, sobbing his heart out. Val’s with him just now. He’s been great. He’s the one who persuaded Throm to let me take the call.”

Dean offered up a silent prayer to Valerian Barclay. Then he heard voices in the background, and knew Throm had returned. There was a brief discussion, then Sam’s voice returned.

“Throm says he’s sending Gabe and me down to see you”, he said. “Now. He’s releasing me from my duties as camp mage and granting me special leave. We’ll use the Fraternity House portal and be with you around nine tomorrow – this morning.” He paused. “Dean…..”

“Yeah?”

“You’ll always be my big brother. And I’ll always be there for you. Hang in there.”

Dean stifled another sob.

“Thank you.”

He was about to add I love you, but Sam broke the connection. He didn’t miss the bitter irony that he could say to his brother the three words he had so cruelly denied to the man who, too late, he realized that he loved with all his heart.

+~+~+

Dean was dreaming. 

It was a garden, but like none he had ever seen. He was walking along a path, but whichever way he looked, the details faded into a blur after only a few steps. It was almost like he was in his own private bubble of existence, and everything outside was unreal. It was peaceful, but he felt in some way it was a fragile peace, ready to shatter when....

Then he saw it. 

A statue of Castiel holding a sword, his wings outstretched behind him. And sitting before it on the pedestal, wrapped in his own black-and-white wings, the most powerful being on the planet, shaking silently. He looked up as Dean approached, his face tear-stained and dark.

“Well, well! The warrior returns!”

“Bray....”

“Three little words, that was all you had to say. But you couldn't, could you? Now see what you have done?”

“Please! Give me another chance.”

Braton glared at him as if he wanted to hit him. Dean flinched. The pain in the god's face was the same as the one in his own heart. 

“You rejected a pygar after a Level Three bonding”, Braton said coldly. “Cas warned you what would happen. You gave him no reason to carry on.” 

Dean sank to his knees.

“You must hate me!” he burst out. “I've ruined everything!”

Braton rose slowly to his feet, and Dean was only too aware of just how much power this being had. The god glared at him, then glanced up at the statue.

“I was that boy's meredi”, he said bitterly, “sworn to give everything up to and including my life to protect him. I protected you, Dean, only because I knew there was a chance you could make him happy. I was always there for you, I even protected your brother when you asked, and you repaid me by breaking my charge's heart. I am done with you.”

“No!” Dean gasped, reaching his hands out in supplication. “I'm begging you...”

“You had your chance!” Braton snarled. “And it's time I let the world know just how much of a bastard you really are!”

He raised an outstretched hand towards the warrior, and Dean felt a stinging pain on his shoulder. Looking down, he saw the Fraternity trigram but reversed, three black triangles surrounding one white one.”

“Let all those who see that know that you are hated by me”, Braton said mercilessly. “Until you prove yourself worthy of the love you so easily threw in that poor boy's face, you shall live with a permanent reminder of your own, weak self. Begone, Dean Winchester. I wash my hands of you!”

He flicked his hand at the warrior, and Dean found himself being thrust backwards. The garden faded into a blur, and his dream went black.

+~+~+

“Who is he?”

Braton looked up from his coffee to see his husband standing in the kitchen doorway, looking uncertainly at him. It pained him that Andros might actually be afraid of him.

“My son”, he said softly. Noting at once his husband's look of shock, he quickly added, “by myself. No other gods were involved in this production.”

Andros walked uncertainly to the table and sat down, still some distance from his husband.

“The twice-born?” he ventured.

Braton nodded. 

“Yes”, he said flatly. “The days of gods may indeed soon be done.”

“And... us?”

Braton sighed. 

“I've been summoned home”, he said slowly.

“Home?”

The god sighed, and reached his hand across the table. Andros hesitated before taking it, wrapping his long fingers around it.

“All this power.... I'm not of this world”, Braton admitted with a huff. “You knew, or at least guessed that; I just never filled you in on all the details. I was assigned to monitor Arcania and report back to my bosses. I know someone was appointed to spy on me when I started here and I know who it is, but now I've been called back. Their guy must have gotten them to do it.”

“This guy is more powerful than you?” Andros asked.

“Second-level beings are over two hundred times more powerful than fifth-level ones”, Braton said.

“They won't make you leave, surely?” 

“It's a possibility”, Braton admitted sadly. “For all my power here, I'm only a minor clerk to them.”

“Let me come with you!”

Braton smiled at him. 

“If they insist on me leaving, I'll ask for you to come with me”, he promised.

“And you're just going to accept it?” Andros asked incredulously.

Braton pulled back and looked him in the eyes, dark grey boring into slate blue.

“I have to go”, he said. “I will always love you, Andros Feher. Remember that, whatever happens.”

He vanished before his husband could reply.

+~+~+

Braton stood before the Six, his head bowed.

“We barely know where to start”, Green said, and there was a strain of anger in the normally emotionless voice. “Charging across space via the portal system, interfering in the destiny of an Earth being, wilful disobeying of our orders....”

Braton slowly looked up at him. Green hesitated.

“Before you say any more”, Braton said heavily, and even his tone drew a shocked look from all Six, “might I suggest you do a little future-seeking?”

There was a stunned silence.

“It is not for you to offer suggestions to the Council”, Red said testily.

“The Prime Order is to ensure the continued survival of this race”, Braton said quietly. “I think if you look at what is happening to your future just now, you may observe that I have followed that order quite well. Unlike someone I could mention.”

Another silence.

“What do you mean?” White demanded.

“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes”, Braton said, a smile on his face. “Who guards the guards? You were so concerned about my own actions, you took you eye off what the person you sent to monitor me was doing.”

“And what is that?” Black asked loftily.

Braton levelled him with a look.

“At the moment he is ensuring that he can obtain enough power so that he can wipe all of you out without so much as breaking a sweat”, Braton said dryly. “If you don't believe me, check your futures now.”

The look of stunned realization reached the six faces around him at precisely the same moment. Braton's smile widened as the Six all flinched simultaneously.

“Problems?” he asked sweetly.

“What have you done to the portal system?” Yellow demanded, and there was definitely a note of panic in his voice. 

“Ensured only I can go back there”, Braton smiled. “Which I am about to do. Thanks to your summoning me here at precisely the worst possible moment – yes, I know your agent told you to, which says something about the gullibility of certain people, doesn't it? - I may now be too late to stop him. But not to worry – I and mine will make our escapes. You, on the other hand....”

He chuckled unpleasantly.

“You will be his first victims if I fail”, he said nastily. “Goodbye.”

He vanished with a flash.

+~+~+

Metatron stared at the figure before him. All right, so he had been mistaken. Apparently his day could get worse.

“You're Crowley”, he said accusingly. “In charge of the TSA.”

“In person”, the demon sneered. “And I'm here to make you an offer you can't refuse!”

Metatron resisted the urge to blast him into a million pieces there and then.

“I wouldn't”, the demon said softly. “I know all about about your little plan. If anything happens to me, Kaos and his cronies will know immediately about your whole plot.”

The god of scribes glared at him. He might only be a third-level god on this world, but he had more than enough power to shred this portly upstart halfway across the galaxy. Yet he couldn't risk his plans being discovered, not now, not when he was so close to success.

“What do you want?” he ground out.

“A share of the spoils”, Crowley smirked. “You in charge of this world, me in charge of the next. Winners all round, I'd say.”

“And why should I trust you?” Metatron demanded.

“Because I know a way for you to get that seventh item, with or without the featherhead.”

Metatron stared at him in shock.

“Deal?” Crowley asked.

“Deal!” Metatron said, unhesitatingly.

+~+~+

Dean woke from his dream, staring confusedly at the cold, painted ceiling above him. Then the memory of what he had done the day before came back with a jolt, and he bit back a sob. Cas was gone. And it was all his fault.

He swung himself upright, only to realize that he was not alone. A portly man dressed in black and red was standing over by the door. 

“I may not even be a demigod”, he said coolly, “but as an upper-ranked demon, I guarantee you would not reach your weapon in time.”

“Who are you?” Dean ground out. 

The man smiled unpleasantly, and Dean was reminded of the late and unlamented Evelyn Goddard. 

“Crowley, head of the TSA”, he smiled. “I have a proposition to put to you, Colonel Winchester.”

“Not interested”, Dean said flatly.

“Not even if it reunites you with your pygar buddy?” Crowley said. “You know, the one you rejected last night? The one you killed.”

“Liar!”

“Pagari can't survive being rejected after a higher-level bond is formed”, Crowley smirked. “You knew that, but you still cut and run.”

“Bray will help me get him back”, Dean lied.

“That mark on you says otherwise”, Crowley smirked. “I'm the only game in town, Dean. I can get you two back together, if you give me what I want.”

Dean stared at him uncertainly.

“I'd do anything to get Cas back”, he said at last. 

The demon moved so fast, he never had a chance. One moment he was on the far side of the room, the next he was right next to Dean. Before the warrior could react, the knife penetrated his stomach, and he could feel his life-blood start to ebb slowly but inexorably away.

Cas, he thought bitterly. I'm coming.....

+~+~+

Castiel screamed as he sat bolt upright in bed. The next moment, Braton was there beside him, holding him by the shoulders. His son looked at him in horror.

“Dean is.....”

“I know, Cas. I know.”

“But why?”

Braton hesitated.

“Because he couldn't live without you”, he said quietly. “Yes, he ran at the first sign of any emotion, but for all that he's a great warrior, he can't cope with such things as love.”

His son turned his blue eyes up to him.

“How?” he asked quietly. “Who?”

“He still left you”, Braton pointed out. “He bonded with a pygar in full knowledge of what that meant, then he fled.”

“I don't care!” Castiel said bitterly. “I want him back! I love him!”

Braton looked sadly at his son. This, he thought, is fatherhood. Doing something you hate for someone not worthy, because of your own flesh and blood. He gently pulled his son into a hug.

“Life is no fairy-tale”, he whispered, “but here's how we're going to go about it.....”


	16. Beyond Death's Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it.

Metatron put the book down and walked over to his chess set where he tapped a few pads, his queen moved serenely into the centre of the block, pinning the black prince perfectly before sitting down and admiring his handiwork. The game was almost over.

“Nice playing”, came a voice from behind him. 

Metatron did not let out an unmanly shriek, even if it sounded very much like he did. Once he had picked himself off up the floor – the chair just slipped, that was all – he turned to find Crowley standing there, looking as smug as ever. And holding some sort of hammer.

“Where did you find it?” Metatron demanded.

“In a barn near Deuteronomy, where an old stone circle used to stand”, Crowley explained. “You lost the pygar, but the man he mated with before he left served just as well, especially after I killed him. I used his soul to scan all the places the winged beastie had been to, then dumped his mate in Purgatory.”

Metatron stared in shock.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded.

Crowley shrugged his shoulders.

“Demon, remember? I could only access his power once he was dead. Well? I haven't got all day!”

Metatron ignored the snide remark, though he quietly promised himself there would be retribution for it later. Instead he walked over and took the hammer from the demon. It was, he recognized, the sort used by shoemakers, and there was a letter engraved into the end.

“A 'W'?” the god questioned. “Fuck!”

“Or an 'S'”, Crowley said.

“How can that be an 'S'?” Metatron demanded. 

“It dates back to the Old Empire”, Crowley said. “If you lay the thing down, it's actually a sigma, which was their old 'S'.”

“So it was 'sorcery', after all”, Metatron muttered. 

“What was?” Crowley asked.

“The key word”, Metatron said. “We have to place one item at each of the corners of the heptagram, then stand in the centre and recite the key word. That will draw all the powers of any gods on the planet into us in a matter of seconds. The hammer goes by the rune that looks like a squashed egg.”

“Sounds good to me”, Crowley grinned. He took the hammer back and carefully placed it where instructed, whilst Metatron went to the safe and extracted the six other items, placing one at each of the remaining six points. Then he joined Crowley in the centre.

“Let's say the word after three”, Crowley offered. Metatron nodded.

“One, two.....”

The normally quiescent portal suddenly crackled into life in the corner of the room, and to the surprise of both of them, a figure materialized in front of it. A tallish blond pygar with golden-white wings.

“Made it at last!” he said. “Hullo, Metatron.”

“You're Gadreel!” Metatron squeaked. “But how....”

“Figured out a way to make the system stable enough to project a hologram through it”, Gadreel shrugged. “Besides, I had important news to tell you. About those gloves.”

“Can't it wait?” Crowley snapped. “We're ready to go here!”

Gadreel looked at him for the first time.

“Who's this?” he asked uncertainly.

“Crowley”, Metatron sighed. “He's here because....”

He stopped. The look on the hologram's face was one of sheer terror.

“Metatron, get away from him!”

“But why? I know he's....”

Crowley snickered. 

“Looks like the game's up”, he grinned. “Sorry, Metatron darling. And thanks so much for all your hard work!”

He stepped back and flicked a hand at the god of scrolls. Metatron was immediately wrapped in a set of coiling black magic bonds, which crackled across his skin, causing him to scream in pain. Though only for a few moments, because the god promptly exploded.

“He'll be back”, the image of Gadreel warned.

“It'll be too late by then”, Crowley said, walking over to the point with the red glove, and exchanging it for its partner. “How did you know?”

“Look at the letters he had so far”, Gadreel said. “He had 'COREY', plus either an 'L' or an 'R'. I bet it was you with the other glove, too.”

Crowley grinned.

“Nearly got caught there”, he admitted. “I put it with its fellow less than thirty seconds before that idiot turned up.”

“I did a run-through of all the possible seven-letter words one could make from that, and your name was on the list”, Gadreel went on. “I was using the portal to listen in on your conversation, and once I knew about the 'W' – nice trick with the old alphabet, by the way – I knew the spell could involve your name. You're the person destined to become all-powerful.”

“You know a lot, for an illusion”, Crowley sneered. “Anything else before I make sure the days of gods, plural, are done here?”

The hologram drifted over to the chess cube.

“I do think stringing the poor sap along here was pushing it a bit”, he said.

The demon scowled at him.

“How did you know about that?” he demanded suspiciously.

“On my world”, Gadreel remarked, examining the cube's control pads, “they say dealing with the gods is like playing checkers against someone, only to find out halfway through that your opponent is actually playing chess. You played a good game.”  
   
“I did”, Crowley smirked.

“The late Metatron talked a lot about his opponents, and their various playing styles”, Gadreel observed. “Perhaps you should make your last move, before....”

He trailed off. Crowley grinned, and pointed at the pads on the black side of the board. Four black pieces materialized from nowhere in the centre of the board, taking out three white ones and freeing the black prince from captivity, whilst three more appeared on white's back rank, pinning the king. The demon grinned in triumph.

“As you said, the poor sap was playing a lower game”, he smirked. “I was playing four-dimensional chess, where pieces can hide in another dimension until your opponent least expects it.”

Gadreel looked at him.

“So are you going to use all your new power to bring me home?” he asked.

“Why not?” Crowley smirked. “Being Supreme God will doubtless get old after a while, and I'll need a decent chess opponent once I've destroyed Metatron a second time!”

Gadreel nodded, and his image flickered. Crowley returned to stand in the centre of the heptagram and smirked again, before folding his arms and quietly intoning his own name.

And nothing happened.

“It's not working!” the demon growled. 

Gadreel tipped his head to the side, as if he was listening for something. Crowley was about to ask him what, when the room gave a slight shake.

“What was that?” the demon demanded.

Gadreel grinned at him. Then he shimmered again, except this time he seemed to grow slightly shorter, his hair darkening and the translucent wings solidifying into a patchwork of black, white and grey. Dark eyes stared knowingly at the man in the heptagram.

“Hullo, Agent 18.”

Crowley glared at him. So the bastard had somehow managed to get back. Well, at least that meant the demon would have the pleasure of destroying him first.

“I might have guessed. !” he snarled. “But you're in over your head here, Agent 4473. Even without any extra power, I'm three clear levels above you, which means I'm precisely two hundred and sixteen times more powerful. I never liked you, and ending you will be a great pleasure.”

Braton smiled knowingly.

“What?” Crowley demanded.

The room shuddered.

“Someone is coming”, Braton announced.

“No-one can access this place”, Crowley said loftily. “My powers are greater than any god in this lame excuse for a civilized world!”

Braton smiled again. The room shook violently.

“Agent 18”, the god said quietly, “there is someone I would like you to meet. His name is Castiel.”

The last two words Crowley would ever hear echoed inside his head.

My son.

Something exploded into existence behind him, something tall, white, glowing, and wielding a sword with which it cut through the demon time and again, splattering blood everywhere. Braton winced slightly, and backed himself round behind the chess cube, tuning out the screams as one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy was shredded into several trillion pieces. When he emerged two minutes later, his son was standing there, glowing with heavenly light and sweating profusely. 

“Feeling better, Cas?” he asked quietly.

His son nodded, still panting.

“Well, I guess that's your soul mate's killer seen to”. Braton said calmly. “I suppose Id better go and see old Mors about getting said soul mate back.”

“Would he do that?” Castiel asked uncertainly.

Braton chuckled. 

“Let's just say I have a feeling he might.”

He put one arm around his son, and with the other flicked towards the chess block. The white prince morphed into something much larger, then pulsed with a blue light that briefly filled the entire block, turning all the black pieces to dust. 

Poor Agent 18, Braton thought wryly. As I told you, it's hard when your opponent is playing the game on a higher level.

+~+~+

The gods watched the video of Castiel destroying someone several thousand times more powerful than any of them. The only reaction was the sound of swallowing. Braton looked at the god of death.

“His soul mate got killed because of all this”, he said pointedly. “Of course, Cas could always go down to your world and bring him back himself, but I thought in the circumstances.....”

“Consideritdone!” Mors blurted out.

”Thank you”, Braton smiled. “And now, I must set about making the rest of that prophecy come true.”

“Wait a minute”, Arkon said. “What do you mean, the rest of the prophecy?”

Braton grinned. 

“You trusted your secretary”, he said with a smile. “He translated the scrolls I left for you, and gave you verses one and two. He left off verses three and four, and I didn't give him the last two verses to start with. You might like to go and read the whole thing. Bye!”

He vanished. The gods shuffled almost nervously over to the wall scroll, and read what was written there.....

When false night shall his home make here,  
When half a crown shall disappear,  
When shall the king of iron fall,  
When love and strength shall conquer all.

When war and peace apart are done,  
When twice-born shall there be a son,  
When in the fiction, fact is key,  
The days of gods shall numbered be.

A true love lost, so newly-found,  
Then to another world he's bound,   
A safe harbor he there shall find,  
So to himself he can then bind.

Across the stars to where waves foam,  
The one who loves shall bring him home.  
But if he fails, the gods shall fall,  
The record-keeper shall rule all,

Through death's dark vale the chief so blind,  
Three clues he'll need, one truth he'll find,  
Thrice for his sins he must atone,  
To melt the heart of coldest stone.

So shall they find the truest love,  
Their sons shall sail the skies above,  
And when the sire shall kill his son,  
The days of gods shall then be done.

+~+~+

Dean woke from an unusually deep sleep, and jerked upright in his bed. That had been the most freakishly weird dream ever! He looked at the clock on the wall, and blanched. Sam and Gabriel would be here in less than half an hour, and he still had the orders of the day to write out. Anything to take his mind off Cas, and what he had done.

That, of course, became impossible when his brother and his brother's mate arrived. Gabriel looked broken; there was no other word for it. Sam had been right; it was as if someone had pulled out the plug and drained away his life-force. He had nothing left, except a super-strength version of the same look he had given Dean when they had first met all those months ago. He stumbled into the room after his husband and made a point of keeping Sam between himself and Dean.

“You utter bastard!” he cried.

He glared at Dean again, then backed away and drew out his golden wings, sinking to the floor inside them. Dean knew, because Castiel had once told him, that this was a fiercely defensive posture, and only someone with a death-wish would go near a pygar using it. He tried to hold Sam back when he went over to his husband, but his brother went and sat behind his mate, folding his giant body around Gabriel's smaller one. He held him gently, his head resting on Gabriel’s shoulders whilst his ridiculously long arms spread along the folded wings. Dean could almost feel the bond crackle between them.

“I hate you!” Gabriel burst out. “Cas is gone, and it’s all your fault!”

“I….”

“Don’t speak. Don’t say a word. Nothing you say could justify what you did to my brother!”

Gabriel shrunk in on himself even more, and Sam whispered soothingly in his husband's ear. The pygar shuddered, but seemed to relax slightly. He looked up at Dean, almost pityingly.

“You could have had this”, and his voice was softer now, less accusatory. “More than this. Cas was ready to lay his heart and soul open to you. Why did you hurt him the way you did? Now he’s gone, and….. it's empty. Raw, open….. I just can’t feel him. I think he’s….”

“Don’t say it!”

“Why? You don’t care for him!”

“I love him!”

The two men stared at him.

“Too late!” snapped Gabriel. 

Sam frowned at him.

“Gabe, isn’t there any way of finding him?”

“Not without the bond. It takes two bonded people to make it work. Or unless I bond with someone else who’s bonded with Cas, but you were to be his first.”

Dean stared at him.

“Then do it.”

Gabriel stood up so fast that he knocked Sam over. 

“Have you gone stark, staring mad?” he yelled. “That would only work if Cas bonded with you! And it needs at least three separate goes to make a true bond out of season!”

“He did bond with me!”

Gabriel looked like he was about to snap back at him, but he suddenly went silent. 

“What?” Dean asked.

“Your aura”, the pygar said quietly.

“What?”

“Your aura”, Gabriel repeated softly. “I can sense him in it. “The Fates alone know how, but he bonded with you!”

“He loved me”, Dean whispered.

“Do you know what this means?” Gabriel demanded. “I can’t bond with you, but an attempt would show us if Cas is alive.”

Dean stared at the pygar, wondering why he looked so grim. Then he realized.

“And failure to get a reaction would show that he’s dead”, he finished.

The bottom fell out of Dean’s world for the umpteenth time in the past twenty-four hours. Once again, he felt things couldn’t possibly get worse. Then he saw the look on Gabriel’s face, and knew that, once again, the universe was about to prove him wrong.

“What is it?”

Gabriel glanced tentatively at his husband. “There is a chance”, he said carefully, “that even an attempt at bonding with you.... well, you're not my mate. It might kill you.”

“Okay.”

The other two stared at him. Dean stared back.

“I’ll take the risk. I love Cas, and if this is the only way to have a chance of getting him back, I’ll do it.”

“Dean….” Sam began.”

“Stow it, Sammy. This is my mistake, and I’m going to put it right.”

He crossed to the window overlooking the barracks, breathing in what might be his last few lungfuls of air. The morning mist had yet to clear over the dusty parade ground, as if the world hadn't fully woken up yet. He turned back to his brother-in-law.

“Let’s bond.”

+~+~+

“Stand facing me”, said Gabriel. “Sam, get behind me and hold me, but very loosely on the shoulders. If I use your energy to make the bonding attempt, it reduces the risk to your brother.”

They positioned themselves accordingly.

“Ease in gently”, warned the pygar. “Once our foreheads touch, that’s the moment. If Cas is anywhere on the planet, there should be a slight spark.”

Dean was shaking. In a matter of seconds, he would know whether his stupidity would lead to a lifetime of misery, or whether he might indeed be granted a second chance. Or if, indeed he might not survive finding out. Gabriel looked just as anxious, but edged his own head forwards too. 

They touched, ever so lightly.

A split second later, Dean was sprawled against the desk, whilst Sam was up against a chair on the opposite side of the room. Only Gabriel had got clear, flying to avoid being flung backwards, despite the fact his outstretched wings nearly filled the room. His face was completely transformed.

“He’s alive!” he shouted gleefully.

+~+~+

Braton knew exactly where he would find his son; as close as he could get to the man who had betrayed him without being seen. Though for the being who had just thoroughly shredded something with the power to destroy an entire planet, that probably wasn't much of a problem. Castiel was sat on his bed in the medical centre, looking up at his father's approach.

“Mors agreed”, the god said. “He woke up not long ago, having had nothing more than a weird dream. Sam and Gabe are with him now.”

“I know”, his son said quietly. 

He looked thoughtfully at Braton, and for a moment the god feared....

“I'm afraid”, his son said quietly. “He didn't love me enough....” 

Braton gestured to the painting of the beach.

“You always wondered, didn’t you?” he said.

“Wondered what?” Castiel looked up at him, puzzled.

“Who he was. The other pygar in the picture. You painted the two figures in some time after you finished the rest of that painting. Dean saw it just before that fateful evening, and assumed you were seeing your future happiness with someone else. That was one reason he behaved the way he did.”

“I did wonder. But that other figure – he just seemed right.”

Braton stretched out an arm to just above the painting, and his son suddenly felt dizzy. The painting’s perspective seemed to spin round until they were hovering over the lapping waves, close up to the two figures. Castiel stared at them in shock. The pygar he was holding was Dean! 

His voice failed him for several moments, before he finally managed a strangled “how?”

“Because in the end, he did love you enough”, Braton said gently. “You were painting a future where you were brave enough to give Dean a second chance. This is one of the results.”

Castiel stared in silence at the figures before him.

“I’ve read about such things,” he said eventually, “but, even so, that can only happen if….” his voice trailed off.

“The Level Three bond”, Braton smiled. “You wanted proof, Cas. You had it all the time – proof at your own hands. You saw the future and you painted it.”

Castiel put his head in his hands.

“I’m such a fool!”

“You both are. But there is a way forward. A way to find your very own happily ever after.”

“How?” the pygar asked breathlessly.

The wings enfolded him for one final time, and as they did so, he heard those same four words he had heard so often in that soft voice, throughout all the years of his youth. The one constant factor in his life. The one being who would always be there for him.

“Once upon a time…..”

+~+~+

They were in a familiar room, and Castiel cursed silently as he realized how he had missed the obvious.

“You were Uncle Luri”, he said quietly. 

“All the better to keep an eye on you, my pretty!” Braton teased.

Castiel saw a familiar book resting on the armchair. He smiled.

“Happily Ever After?” he said. I always loved that book. Especially…..”

“Heart of Stone.”

“Yes.”

“Dac, Con, Soren, Gary….”

Castiel turned to look at him.

“Dean, Cas, Sam, Gabe. That was why you loved that story, Cas. It’s your story. I wrote it for you. And it does have a happily ever after.

“For real?”

Braton drew a heavy breath.

“I have never asked you for anything in your life”, he said slowly, “but now I must. I need you to trust me. With your life.”

Castiel looked at him uncertainly. The events of the past few hours had shaken him to the core, but he knew that, whatever else, this was the man that had saved him. That had always been there for him. 

“I trust you”, he said firmly. “With my life.”

“Come, then”, Braton said, almost sadly. “'Thrice for his sins he must atone, and melt the heart of coldest stone'.”

They both vanished from the room. 

+~+~+

“I had a dream last night”, Dean said quietly. “Cas had become a statue, and he was in a garden. Braton was there, and he disowned me. I've never seen him that angry before.”

“Except the time he throttled me”, Sam pointed out.

“What about Andros?” Gabriel suggested. When the brothers looked at him, he shrugged. “Just saying; perhaps he might help. You said that time he met you, he seemed a lot more understanding.”

“A summoning spell?” Sam said doubtfully.

“It's worth a try”, his husband said.

+~+~+

There is, of course, a world of difference between summoning a demon or minor spirit on one hand, and a god on the other. The difference being that whilst the former get summoned, the latter get invited. It's like the difference between serving a subpoena and setting out milk and cookies in the hope someone might turn up. Someone who could turn you to dust if they get annoyed.

Gabriel chalked out the protective pentagram (although they all knew that no magic any of them possessed would protect them from an angry Andros), and marked a rune at each point. Then he stood back and carefully recited the summoning charm.

Nothing happened. The pentagram remained pointedly empty. 

“Looks like he's not interested”, Dean said glumly.

“It does take a few seconds”, Gabriel pointed out.

“Braton must have told him not to help us”, Sam said,

“He did.”

They all jumped, and turned simultaneously to see an attractive tall man with blond curly hair observing them from the table he was leaning against on the far side of the room.

“Halbuk, Andros' father”, Gabriel whispered. “Um, hullo, sir. We were kind of hoping your son would come. There”, he added, gesturing to the pentagram.

The god sighed in a put-upon way, then pulled himself up and ambled over to the pentagram. He stood in the middle of it and looked pointedly at Dean.

“You fool!” he said acidly. “The only time you ever ran from a scene of battle, and it had to be that one!”

Dean hung his head.

“I was nervous when Braton took my son as his mate”, Halbuk said, still eyeing Dean sharply. “You hurt my son-in-law very badly, Dean. If it wasn't for Castiel, he'd have killed you by now. Very slowly and painfully.”

“I'd deserve it”, Dean muttered.

“However”, the god went on, “fortunately for you, Braton is as bound by the Fates as most of us. He knew this was likely, and even though it's hurting him more than any pain anyone could inflict on him, god or human, he'll play by the rules. Dean, three clues will guide you to find Castiel. One you have already, the second I am allowed to give you, and the third..... the third you must work out for yourself.”

“Thank you” Dean blurted out. “Thank you so much! And you're not even Cas' family!”

“Family doesn't always end with blood, Dean” the god said firmly. He handed over a tattered book that he had produced from somewhere, and as the warrior took it, he held onto it for a moment.

“Mark well, Dean Winchester”, he said sharply. “You have been given a second chance, so make it work. There won't be a third one!”

He melted away. Dean grabbed the book to his chest and held it as if his life depended on it. 

+~+~+

“A book of fairy-tales! Bray's torturing me!”

“You probably deserve it”, Gabriel muttered, earning himself a glare from his husband. 

“The Sweet House.... The Glass Slipper.... The Three Priests.... Not In Oakland Anymore.... Omega In Red.... Wolf At The Door... Elves After Midnight... honestly!”

“How many stories are there?” Sam asked.

“Eight”, his brother said. “The last one was marked, so I guess that must be the important one. It's called Heart Of Stone.”

Dean read silently, whilst his brother and brother-in-law watched him anxiously. As the story progressed, he had an increasingly horrible sinking feeling that he knew exactly what had happened to Cas after he had fled the medical centre. That dream had been all too accurate.

'Dac was frantic. He searched everywhere for his friend, but to no avail. Until one day...'

Dean was almost trembling as he looked across the page, only to let out a terrible cry. Someone had ripped the next page out of the book. He threw it across the room in disgust, and collapsed to the floor. His brother hurried over to him and threw his arms around him, desperately trying to comfort him.

They both looked up when, to their amazement, Gabriel let out a strangled laugh.

“If he wasn't a god, I'd hit him!”

“What is it?” Dean sniffed, wiping his face.

“He told us the answer”, the pygar chuckled, “and we were too stupid to see it.”

“Huh?” Sam said.

Gabriel took up the bookmark and waved it at them both.

“'Mark well', guys?” he said. “Mark, as in bookmark? The book is one clue. The other clue is on the bookmark!”

Dean stared at him incredulously.

“Read it!” he ordered.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at the tone, but read what turned out to be six lines of poetry:  
All alone betwixt four walls, here I loved the most,  
Resting by the waters calm, ever at my post.  
Bound by one I truly loved, though you loved not me,  
On my own for now I wait, beneath the elder tree.  
Use your first for knowledge, thrice shall you ask for this,  
Remember where you have to look, and thrice bestow your kiss.

“I don't get it”, Sam said slowly, looking over his mate's shoulder at the tiny writing. “I mean, apart from the mistake......”

“Bray doesn't make mistakes!” said Dean sharply. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, the fifth line. The correct phrase is 'thirst for knowledge'. He's put ‘first’ with an ‘f’. 

Dean stared at his brother, and a strange light appeared in his eyes. Halbuk had said he had one clue already, and there was only one time Braton had given him anything, a time he had warned Dean that he had to remember what he told him. Dean had written it down immediately afterwards and had the paper locked in his desk drawer, but he didn't need it. He remembered those three words perfectly. 

First, look down. 

He stared incredulously at the poem, his jaw dropping slowly open. By the Fates, he knew exactly where Castiel was. Barely five minutes away!

“I love you Sam!” he cried, and kissed his startled brother full on the lips before bolting for the door.

+~+~+

Dean almost knocked over two people as he sprinted down the road to the town gardens, ignoring the pouring rain. At least the rain meant that there was no-one in the actual gardens as he raced in through the main gate, and veered sharply right towards his destination. It was only as he reached the archway that he began to feel the first pangs of doubt. No, surely, it was so obvious when you looked down the first letter of every line – he had to be in what he had once told him was one of his favourite places!

The arbour was a small walled area of the garden set aside from the rest, with a round pond in the middle and four statues around the outside. Three were caked with dirt and age, but the fourth gleamed new, and was strikingly familiar. A proud pygar down on one knee and holding a sword, looking hopefully ahead, cast in pure white stone, but dark grey in the mid-day shadows. Seeing what he had done, Dean Winchester hated himself more at that moment than at any time in his entire life.

There was also the not inconsiderable issue of one somewhat angry-looking dark-winged god sat on the pedestal. 

“Bray!” the warrior ground out. He was trying to keep his temper – he knew that this god could destroy him with a thought – but that was the man he loved there, and even the most powerful being in the planet wasn't going to stand in his way.

“You hurt my charge”, Braton said crisply. “I am Cas' meredi, and I must protect him from anything that could cause him pain. Like some bastard mating with him and then abandoning him, to take a random example.”

“I was scared! You couldn't know what that's like, Bray!”

The god's dark eyes flashed, and Dean suddenly found himself unable to breathe. He collapsed to the floor, trying not to scream in agony.

“I have known fear ever since this boy existed!” the god hissed angrily. “And when you hurt him, you hurt me too, Dean Winchester. I protected you time and again so that one day, you and Cas could have a chance together, and you blew it! My boy deserves so much better than someone who cuts and run at the first little difficulty!”

Dean whimpered in pain. Braton seemed to shake for some reason.

“But despite all this, he has chosen you”, he said, sounding almost resentful at the fact. “So be it. I have always done everything I can to ensure his happiness, and if it's you he wants, it's you he'll get. But..... remember this, Dean Winchester. So far you've abjectly failed to earn that love. You hurt him again, and I'll put you through such torment that you'll beg to die. That is a promise!”

He vanished with a blinding flash, and the magical vice on Dean's innards went with him, much to the warrior's relief. He got up and pulled himself together. Honestly, it was like meeting the parents and getting the 'if you hurt them, I'll kill you' speech. 

Indeed, a soft voice echoed in his mind. Dean shuddered, but drew up to the statue and gently kissed it on the lips.

Nothing happened. The statue was still - a statue. Okay. So that wasn't going to work. He kissed it again – perhaps it had to be a long kiss – but still nothing.

Now you're just torturing me, Bray, he thought angrily.

The answer was a sharp slap on his face.

“Ow!” he yelped. “What was that for?”

The last line, you idiot! 

Dean thought for a moment, then unfurled the poem, which had become a bit of a mess during his madcap dash through the town, and re-read the last line. And thrice bestow your kiss? Ye gods, that bas... Bray was right – he was an idiot! He'd only kissed Cas twice. He edged carefully forward again, and kissed the stone lips for a third time. As he did so, he heard what was undoubtedly a mental sigh of relief.

Thrice you kissed your love so true  
Though you're a jerk, you'll have to do,  
A second chance, the die is cast,  
Your next screw-up will be your last!

Dean blinked as the sun suddenly shone through the clouds straight onto both him and the statue. He could almost imagine that.....

The statue suddenly crumbled to dust.

Dean stood on the pedestal, covered in the dust that had been his... well, Cas had never been his anything, had he? Dean's brazen cowardice had seen to that. He sank to his knees and almost fell off the pedestal, holding his head in his hands as he sobbed uncontrollably.

It was actually only just over a minute later, although it felt a lot longer, that he realized he was no longer alone. He looked up, to see Braton leaning against the other side of the pedestal. He so wanted to hit him, but he retained just about enough sense to know just how bad an idea that would be. 

“I thought you said I could have him back!” he gulped out.

“Words can be deceptive, Dean. Like appearances.”

The familiar voice came from behind him, and he spun round to see.... Braton? Sitting calmly on the bench opposite, the book of fairy-tales in his hands. But then who.....?

“Remember, Dean, not all fairy-tales come true”, the Braton across the pond said. “And not always in the way we expect. But I meant what I said. Goodbye, and remember..... I'll always be there.”

He melted away, and Dean spun back to look at the first Braton. Except the figure on the other side of the pedestal was slightly taller, and his wings were pure night black, not the black, white and grey of the real Braton Stone. 

It's not the despair that kills you, Throm had told him once. It's the hope.

Dean stared at Castiel, and moved agonizingly slowly around the pedestal, as if any sudden movement would cause the pygar to flee. Castiel stared at him silently through those impossibly blue eyes, but did not move away. And finally Dean was there, slowly wrapping his arms around the smaller man's body. Their lips finally met, and to his eternal shame, Dean Winchester cried, sobbing endless tears into the warm, soft embrace of the pygar, who wrapped his black wings tentatively around him. 

After what seemed like an age, the warrior's frazzled brain spluttered into life, and for once in his life, it actually managed to supply the right thing to say.

“I love you.”

Castiel looked at him in amazement.

“Dean?”

“I love you, Cas!”, he half-cried, tears still running down his face. “And I promise to say that at least once every day for the rest of our lives together.”

Cas raised a quizzical eyebrow, and tipped his head to one side. Dean's heart crumpled. He had so missed that look.

“Okay, maybe not every day, with my memory. But I’m sure going to try. Please. Be mine.”

“Always and forever”, Castiel said, leading Dean away from the pedestal, before folding his huge black wings behind him. “Are the others back at the barracks?”

“Sam and Gabe, yes. Shall we go and tell them?”

Castiel smiled, and wiped away a tear away from the warrior's face.

“My bond with Gabriel is working”, he smiled. “They already know.”

They kissed once more, then walked slowly back through the gentle rain. And later, when Dean put the poem away for safe keeping, he would find written on the back:

Act Three. Knowing how it feels to have found him, and that you want to be with him forever.

+~+~+

Braton finished marking the runes around the portal, and uttered the opening spell. It duly flickered into life, and a moment later a tall figure stepped through it, his blond hair looking somewhat windblown. He looked pointedly at the god.

“Forty years?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Braton grinned.

“At least you had candy!” he quipped. “And now you get your choice of worlds where you can be the only god in town! Hullo, Gadreel.”

+~+~+

Stop smirking!”

Sam grinned at his brother, with the perfect ‘we-both-know-what’s-coming’ smirk.

“Hey, we both married pagari! I went through it; now it’s your turn!”

“I’m scared of heights, Sammy!”

“Huh. What did Cas say when you told him that?”

“Um….”

Sam paled.

“By the Fates, you haven’t told him? Five minutes from now he’s taking you a mile into the heavens, and you’ve kind of forgotten to mention that you’re acrophobic?”

“I don’t even know what that word means!”

“Scared of heights, Dean!”

“Not scared, Sammy. Bloody terrified!”

Sam sighed. Just when these two had overcome every obstacle in their path, now this. Poor Cas.

He thought quickly. His own bond with Gabriel was strong, but he’d never used it to try to convey thoughts before. There was no time for explanations; in a few minutes Gabriel would be leading his brother from the House. Sam thought hard.

Inside the House, Gabriel started.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel asked him, surprised. 

Heights….. Dean…… fear…..

The music was already starting to play, and no-one was supposed to speak at this time. Gabriel thought fast, and slipped a handkerchief into his brother’s pocket, then walked out of the door before him, trying to relay Sam’s message through his own fraternal bond.

+~+~+

The ceremony went off without a hitch, although Castiel teared up when Dean managed to recite his vows in both Standard and Enochian. Then Father William stepped back.

“Take him away!” he smiled.

“One moment”, Castiel said, much to his new husband’s surprise.

He reached into his pocket and drew out Gabriel’s handkerchief, which he proceeded to bind tightly around Dean’s eyes.

“What you cannot see, you cannot fear”, he whispered.

And then Dean was flying. And with the man who loved him gripping him tight, even with the feeling of them rising ever higher, he knew he was safe.

+~+~+

Braton stepped into the kitchen to find it unusually crowded. Not just his husband, but the latter's father, grandfather and great-grandfather. Andros, at the far end of the table, rose slowly to his feet.

“We think you may owe us all an explanation”, he said quietly.

“Oh”, Braton said, taking the chair directly opposite his husband. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“You told me that the person they sent to spy on you was two hundred times more powerful than you”, Andros said, and Braton could hear the slight nervousness in his voice. As if he'd ever willingly harm the big lug! “But your son, who can only have a fraction of your power, thoroughly destroyed him.”

“I didn't exactly lie to you”, Braton said defensively. “You just assumed, and I didn't disabuse you.”

“Feel free to disabuse away”, Halbuk remarked.

Braton sighed.

“My race created the portal system”, he said at last. “We oversee lots of races across the universe, and we have agents posted in the ones we think might constitute a threat some day. Crowley's race is one such. I knew that if anyone on this world looked like being able to tap into unlimited power, he'd be onto them in a flash.”

“So you were behind it all?” Kairos asked.

Braton nodded.

“You gave me the idea”, he said with a slight smile. “The only way Cas could end up happy was if I wrote him his own ending. And despite a few bumps, that particular fairy-tale did come true.”

“I think his new husband might describe dying as a bit more than a 'bump'”, Chronos pointed out.

“He deserved it for what he did”, Braton said crisply. “But I shall stand by him now, because Cas loves him with all his heart, and my son comes first.”

“Before me?” Andros queried.

“That's not a fair question”, Braton said. “Cas is part of me, and always will be, no matter how powerful he becomes. I chose to love you. Perhaps.... I can prove it to you?”

The three times gods vanished at once. Andros looked warily at his husband.

“Make-up sex?” he said, his voice suddenly edgy.

Braton looked at him, a lazy smirk creasing his features.

“Oh yeah!”


	17. And The All Lived...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened next.

Dean woke to a feeling he'd never felt before. It took him some little time to put a word to it, but eventually he came up with complete. His movements woke his new husband, who smiled groggily up at him from beneath the worst bed hair Dean had ever seen. 

“What's up?” the blue-eyed pygar asked sleepily.

“I don't know”, Dean smiled, ruffling the dark hair. “I just feel....”

“... complete.”

Dean looked at him in surprise.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

Castiel snuggled closer to him. Dean was most definitely not a snuggler, but he felt he could get used to this. With practice. Lots of practice. 

All in the name of research, of course.

He looked down at his shoulder, then stared in shock. 

“What on Arcania....?”

“What is it?” Castiel asked, clearly worried.

“The mark Braton put on me”, Dean said, stunned. “It's gone.”

“Of course”, the pygar muttered.

“But how?”

“Look at your other shoulder.”

Dean glanced across, fearful for a moment that the mark might have simply migrated across to it instead. But instead there was a definite red hand-print, over which his new mate slowly placed his hand.

“Pagari mating marks remove all other marks on the body”, Castiel explained. “Whatever you had before, down to the tiniest scar, would have been swept away when we bonded.”

“Till death do us part”, Dean whispered, pulling his mate closer.

+~+~+

They clattered into the main room some time later only to find it was occupied. Dean froze.

“Bray!” he ground out.

Braton sat in the big chair by the window, with Andros standing beside him. The god looked at Dean, his face expressionless, until his husband hit him.

“Hey!” Braton snapped. “Marital abuse!”

“Stop teasing the guy!” Andros said reprovingly, before looking across at Dean. “Cas had made his choice, and as his meredi, Bray will respect it. All you have to remember is that if you upset your mate at any time....”

“Instant, painful death”, Dean said.

“Not instant”, Braton said darkly. “I can make it long, drawn out and agonizing in ways you would.....”

“Braton!” Castiel said. “Please. He is my mate, and I love him.”

The god sighed.

“I know”, he said heavily. “And to show that there's no hard feelings, we each brought you a wedding present. And got something for Cas and I.... I got something for Dean.”

Okay, now Dean was worried.

Braton lifted up a small sack (which they were both sure hadn’t been there earlier) and felt around inside it, bringing out a single mountain shoe. He looked at Dean.

“No, that wouldn’t suit you.”

He tried again, and came up with a wooden ruler bent over at right angles halfway along its length. He looked at Dean appraisingly before shaking his head.

“Not really. Now where did I put.. ah, here it is!”

This time he pulled out a large plate. It was white, with a blue ring running round the rim. It was spectacularly unremarkable.

“Especially for the pie man”, he smiled knowingly at Dean. “You can have any type of pie on that. What's your favourite?”

“Apple”, Dean said. “Wh.....”

A large, steaming apple pie promptly appeared on the pie dish. Dean stared at it, dumbstruck.

“Dean? What is it?” asked Castiel, concerned.

“The pie dish is fairly literal, Dean”, explained Braton. “You asked for your favourite apple pie. That’s what it delivered.”

“But that’s….” Dean’s voice trailed off, then he turned to his husband. “My papa made it that way just once, the week before Sammy was born. He put those two stars on the top, the bigger one for me, the smaller one for Sammy. I know he used cinnamon in it, but I was never able to make it myself, and now….”

“The usual words of warning apply”, said Braton airily. “Treat it nicely, wash and store it separately; it doesn’t take well to other dishes. And only use it once a week….”

Dean gasped.

“…. plus one extra use on your birthday.”

“Pie. Every week.” 

Castiel giggled. Dean seemed to have translated himself off to some kind of pie nirvana. Eventually he recovered himself and grinned at the pair.

“Thanks. Cas’ present is going to have to be pretty awesome to match that!”

Braton handed the sack to Andros, who winced slightly as he took it. The newly-married couple both wondered why the god smirked knowingly. 

“I think it does”, the demigod said, glaring reprovingly at his husband. “Though in some ways it’s the opposite. You can use your present once a week. If I recall correctly, he can probably use his just the once.”

“Check the instructions on that, though”, Braton added.

Andros reached into the sack and produced, in turn, a wooden elephant, a brick and a kettle, before finally finding the item he required.

It was a snow globe, featuring a wedding scene. Andros looked pointedly at Castiel as he placed it on the table next to the plate.

“Now, this is a lot more powerful than Dean’s present, so be sure you take care”, he said. “Anyway, we’d better be off now.”

“Wait!” Castiel said. “Um, what is it, exactly?”

“A wishing globe.”

“You’re joking!” Dean said, shocked.

“No”, said Braton, as if this were some everyday thing. “Hold it in your hands, think of either And or me, and we'll come and do what we can. I hope you’ll never have to use it, but you've got your whole lives to live, and we’d rather be sure….”

Castiel suddenly left his husband and ran over to hug the god, who looked embarrassed but pleased.

“We promise we won’t be dropping by unless you need us, or unless it’s something important”, Andros smiled “We're pleased for both of you. May you continue to enjoy the happiness you deserve.”

The visitors vanished. Castiel turned to ask Dean something, but he was back in pie heaven.

Life was so good.

+~+~+

Three months later 

Dean turned off the shower and stepped out, then towelled himself dry and pulled on his dressing-gown. The training exercise had been gruelling, but it had served to show him which of his men was ready for promotion, and which were not. He smiled to himself as he heard a door shut nearby. The love of his life was home.

He padded softly into the next room, where Castiel was standing with his back to him. There was a large number of bags on the table. Dean was surprised; shopping was something his mate usually avoided.

“Hey, beautiful?” he whispered.

Castiel turned round – and Dean could see at once that something was wrong. He looked strangely nervous, and was grasping a small bag tightly to his chest. So Dean did what he always did in such situations. He panicked.

“What's wrong?” he demanded anxiously. “You're not.... sick, are you?”

Castiel smiled bashfully.

“Not yet”, he said quietly.

“Huh?”

The pygar turned away from Dean for a moment, took something out of the bag he had been holding and slipped it over his head. When he turned back, Dean could see what it was.

A red headband.

“Holy shit! You're pregnant!”

“You seem surprised, my love.”

Dean rushed over to hug his mate.

“But how... I mean when.....”

Castiel kissed him.

“I only hope he inherits his papa's way with words, and not his father's”, he teased.

Dean kissed him back, then hugged him for what seemed like an age. Finally he stepped back.

“You're amazing, you know”, he said at last.

Castiel looked at him quizzically, his head tipped to one side.

“In what way?”

“Every time I think I couldn't possibly love you more, I find I'm wrong. I love you, Cas.”

“That's the thirtieth time you've said that, since we were married”, observed the pygar dryly. “Though the frequency with which you use that phrase is increasing....”

Dean stopped him talking the only way he knew how.

+~+~+

Six months later 

“All sorted now?” asked Andros.

Braton smiled.

“Yes. The child will be born in three months time, and they will have many more. And since Crowley, the gods won't try anything else; they know full well what will happen if they do. There'll still be dangers, but we can handle them.”

The warrior walked over and draped his long arms over his lover's shoulders.

“Your first grandson. Grandpa Braton!”

“If I hear those two words again, someone's sleeping on the couch!”

Andros chuckled.

“Wonder how the kid will turn out?” he mused. “I mean, of course he'll be a pygar, but will he get any of your powers?”

“That's the least of our concerns”, Braton said, relaxing into his lover's hold.

“How do you mean?”

“Remember that what Dean and my son have is a Level Three bond. A complete fusion of souls, making those involved sharper, cleverer, more creative..... better people all round. Their sons will be the same, able to love and generate love on a totally different level. Who needs gods when you can do that? It's a whole new species, and they are the creators.”

“Just as you created Cas.”

Braton smiled.

“Though we're not totally out of the woods yet”, he said. “In fact, I need to see Cas this afternoon.”

+~+~+

Castiel managed to lever himself out of bed, and waddled towards the bedroom door. Pregnant laymen suffered many things before the birth, not the least of which were the food cravings and the unending lethargy. Worst of all, however, was that Castiel felt he looked awful. Dean could not have been more loving, but being unable to have sex left the pygar feeling he had disappointed his husband somehow. And he still had nearly three months to go.

Then he realized the front room was not empty. Braton was standing there, next to an upright mirror, the surface of which seemed strangely cloudy.

“Hullo, Cas”, the god said, smiling slightly. 

“Um, hullo, Braton. Why are you here?”

“Your son is doing fine, so don't worry. I came to see you.”

“Why?”

“You think Dean doesn't love you because you're pregnant, don't you?” Braton asked gently.

Castiel bit back a sob.

“I'm gross!”

“Come here, Cas.”

The pygar walked hesitantly across and stood beside the god, who tentatively slipped an arm around him, and kissed him lightly on the hair.

“Look in the mirror, and tell me what you see.”

Castiel did. The clouds cleared to reveal a reflection, but not of him as he felt he was. This was a pregnant Castiel James Novak after several hours in the best beauty salon in town, and then some. He shone with an almost divine light.

“I don't understand.”

“This is the Mirror of True Seeing”, Braton explained gently. “It shows things as others see them. This is what Dean sees when he looks at you, every day. He sees past the surface to the real you, the one he loves more than life itself, the one that is a part of his very soul. And that image will not change for the rest of your lives, no matter how much you both age, no matter how many times you get pregnant, because he loves you. Not the ever-changing exterior, but the beautiful soul beneath. I know you feel horrible at the moment, but try to understand. He will always find you this beautiful, Cas. Always and forever.”

Castiel stared at the mirror for a moment, then crumpled into the god, sobbing hard. Braton held him tight, glad the pygar could not see the strain on his own face. Eventually Castiel recovered enough to pull himself up.

“Thank you, Braton. That was... very kind.”

His father kissed him gently on the forehead.

“Dean will always love you, Cas. That's as certain as the fact that And and I will always be there for you. Have faith.”

The god and the mirror both vanished.

+~+~+

Nine months later 

General Allonby had been right. The worst part of Dean’s job as barracks commander was, by a clear margin, the monthly meetings with the town council to sort out the inevitable military versus civilian problems that arose on a day-to-day basis. 

Except today was turning out to be a far from ordinary day. Dean had stared at the paper that had been thrust into his hand, then had let out a stream of words which had almost certainly expanded the vocabularies of several council members present, before hurtling out of the meeting at high speed. Castiel had gone into labour.

The optimistically named ‘City’ Hall just would be at the opposite end of town from the barracks, so Dean had a fair distance to cover. He knew the midwitch was in attendance, but he had desperately wanted to be there himself. This was his and Cas' first-born son, the start of a new Winchester generation. He raced out of the Hall's large front door, only to collide with someone standing just outside...

… and suddenly he was standing outside the birthing room in his own quarters, a familiar figure before him. Braton quirked an eyebrow at his son-in-law. 

“A little more care, next time, Dean”, the god said dryly. “Good luck!”

He vanished before Dean could say anything. Looking through the half-open door, the warrior could see Castiel was already sitting naked and cross-legged with his eyes shut in the main pentagram, so he entered and stepped swiftly into the larger of the two adjoining ones, then focussed on the bond. He immediately felt a warming sensation back; his mate knew he was here, and was glad of it.

Within five minutes there was an almost inaudible 'click', and the runes began to fade. The midwitch nodded briefly at him, and Dean rose and stepped over to his mate's pentagram, gently raising him to his feet. Castiel had a look of absolute bliss on his face, which Dean was relieved to see. He knew some births could be painful if the separation of auras proved difficult. Then the new papa opened his impossibly blue eyes and smiled at his husband.

“You have a son”, he said quietly. “I hope he has your looks.”

“I hope he has your heart”, said Dean, kissing him tenderly.

“Don’t you want to see him?”

“You’ll always be my first love, no matter how many kids you pop out.”

Castiel chuckled, and Dean nuzzled his neck gently. He was shaking with emotion, but he did not care. This was the man he loved more than life itself.

“And how many kids do you expect me to 'pop out', husband mine?” the pygar teased.

Dean grinned.

“Well, I've always fancied my own football team!”

Castiel laughed his deep, throaty chuckle, and led him over to the cot where the newest Winchester was still glowing with his birth aura. He was bigger than Dean had expected, clearly an alpha, had light blond curly hair and, his father was delighted to see, brilliant blue eyes. His fledgling wings were a strange grey-green, but Castiel had already told him that a pygar mating with a human could produce offspring with wings of almost any colour..

“Did you think of any more names?” Dean asked, squeezing his husband's hand.

Castiel blushed.

“I had a visitor just before”, he said. “Andros dropped in.”

“Without Bray?” Dean said without thinking. “Oh....”

“Braton was in charge of making sure you didn't miss the big event”, Castiel smiled. “Andros asked if they might each give the boy a gift, seeing as they helped us get together. His gift was a name.”

Dean felt nervous, though he told himself at least it wasn’t Braton. Though his son might still end up with a pagari name which meant something along the lines of 'Dean is an idiot who so nearly blew everything'.

“What did he suggest?” he asked, fearing the worst.

“Scaden”.

“Okay, unusual. Why?”

“Two reasons. It contains the different letters in ‘Dean’ and ‘Cas’. And it’s an old pagari word which means ‘by the elder tree’. Which is where you found me.”

Dean kissed him.

“Scaden. Hmm, I like it. You okay with it?”

“I like it too. It suits him.”

They kissed again, whilst the baby slept on.

+~+~+

“He’s staring at me again, Cas!”

“I know. I’m training him to freak you out the same way I do.”

“It’s working! Stop it!”

A piece of paper suddenly appeared on the wall next to him. Dean leaned across and read it.

Arriving very shortly. Warning, so you don’t drop anything precious.

As if I would, thought Dean, as Castiel came back into the room with Scaden’s bottle.

“It’s called showing consideration”, Braton said from across the room, making Dean jump anyway. The god was standing behind the couch, whilst Andros was seated. Both were smiling.

“I liked your choice of name, Andros”, Castiel said, as if talking to passing gods and demigods was an everyday occurrence. “I hope he grows up well.”

“He should, with a name like that”, said the warrior.

The new parents stared at him.

“You didn’t think it was just a name, did you? He’ll be a natural charmer, able to talk his way out of almost anything, just like me.” He cuffed his husband lightly on the head. “Shut up, Bray!” 

Braton huffed in mock annoyance.

“Thanks”, said Dean. “That’s a useful talent.

“And I… give him this”, said Braton, handing something to Castiel. It was a small book-sized parcel, wrapped in brown paper. The address label was blank. 

“Not much use now, but if he keeps it until the first time he gets a job, he might find it rather educational. Make sure he doesn't unwrap it too soon.”

The two men knew there had to be something behind it, but both felt it wiser not to ask. Braton coughed pointedly.

“I wonder... if I might ask a favour?”

“What?” asked Castiel.

“May I hold Scaden for a few moments?”

“Of course!” the pygar said generously. “You can give him his bottle.”

Dean carefully handed the baby over to the god, who held him as if he were the most precious thing on Arcania. The look on Braton's’ face was sheer bliss. No-one said anything until he gently handed him back.

“Thank you both”, he said quietly. “That means so much to me.”

“Come on, you great big marshmallow centre, let’s get you home”, Andros said, sidling up beside him. He looked at the happy couple before him, then smiled warmly. “Goodbye”, he said softly.

Braton looked wistfully at the new family.

“Goodbye”, he echoed, as they both disappeared.

+~+~+

Twenty-one months later 

The second birth was, if anything, easier than the first, though this time Dean refused to move more than a short distance away from his mate in the weeks before it was due. Once it happened, he scrambled up from his pentagram and went over to his husband. Castiel opened his eyes, and smiled up at him.

“I think all that worry about names may have been immaterial”, he said calmly.

They had split between two names, but had eventually decided to name the boy after Dean's grandfather. Dean gently raised his husband and kissed him, then led him to the cot where there were....

… two babies. The elder had Dean's brown hair and green eyes, with grey-green wings, whilst the younger had Castiel's black hair, blue eyes and black wings.

“That grey-green shade again”, Dean said. “It's pretty cool.”

“I think that must be your natural wing colour, of you were a pygar”, his mate said. “Like in the painting. So, names?”

“Jensen for the elder”, Dean said. “And the younger? You still want....”

“Misha”, Castiel said unhesitatingly.

“Blacklandese for Michael. After your elder brother, I presume?”

Castiel smiled a secret smile.

“No. Just someone who was a friend to me when I needed it.”

Dean hugged him close, and Castiel could feel his mate's tears of joy running into his hair.

“Gods, Cas, I love you so much!”

+~+~+

Three years later

He was out on his afternoon run when it happened, jogging along Green Hill. His bond with Castiel normally worked best at close quarters, but he felt a sudden surge of surprise from his husband. Dean picked up speed, and all but sprinted down the track back to town.

After the birth of their fourth son Lawrence a couple of months back, he and Castiel had moved into a larger house, just a few doors down from the barracks' South Gate. The quickest way to reach it would have been to cut through the barracks, but Dean didn't want the soldiers there to see his concern, so instead raced round through the town's East Gate and came up Barracks Street. He ran right into the house, startling his husband who was reading quietly to Jensen and Misha in the front room. Scaden was playing with blocks nearby, whilst Lawrence was asleep in his cot. Castiel looked up, concerned.

“Is something wrong, Dean?”

“You were upset!” Dean panted. “What happened?”

Castiel put the book down between his twins, and Jensen picked it up at once, moving closer to Misha so they could look at it together. The pygar led Dean into the kitchen.

“Mike and Luke called.”

“Your brothers? But they're in Irilia!”

“They came over using the Frat House portal. They... wanted to make me an offer.”

A bad feeling came over Dean.

“What was it?” he asked warily.

“I've been given the chance to become an isrel. I refused, of course.”

“I don't understand. What's an isrel?”

Castiel hesitated for a moment.

“Probably best if you think of it as a supremely powerful pygar”, he said at last. “The pagari have twelve at a time, and one passed on recently. Michael asked me to be their replacement. I don't think he or Luke were all that surprised when I refused.”

“But why did you?”

Castiel tilted his head to one side and looked at him hard, as if Dean was the stupidest creature on the planet.

“Because I have you, of course”, he said softly.

Dean would like it put on record that he did not break down and cry at this point in time. 

Not that much.

Only for half an hour or so.

Ish.

+~+~+

Seven years later 

One of the great joys of the fusion Dean had with Castiel was waking up, and feeling immediately that reassuring presence, even if his husband wasn't actually in the bed with him. Why was why, when Dean woke one morning to find he couldn't sense his husband, he naturally panicked. Within seconds Castiel was snuggling into bed beside him, holding him reassuringly.

“I couldn't feel you, Cas”, Dean murmured, shuddering as he pulled his husband close.

“I know.”

Dean looked at him in surprise. His husband looked embarrassed for some reason.

“What's wrong?” he asked nervously.

“You know my aura failed after giving birth to Dane”, Castiel began.

“Uh huh. Six births, seven kids. We've been truly blessed.”

“It sort of seems he might not be our last kid after all.”

“What?” Dean almost shouted, sitting up. “You're pregnant again?”

“Of course not”, Castiel smiled. “That would be impossible. I am most definitely not pregnant.”

“Oh. Pity.”

“You are, though!”

Dean coughed violently.

+~+~+

“Definitely”, Doctor Fitzgerald said, smiling. “Six months from now you should have number eight.”

“Um, Doc, do you mind telling me exactly how?”

“I'm not really sure. But I guess the bond between you and your mate is so strong, its enabled you to become a catcher rather than a hitter. I've never heard of anything like it before. Maybe it's a gift from the gods?”

Dean thanked him, then he and Castiel went home to relieve the babysitter. The warrior remembered that, as it was the weekend, at least he could use the pie-dish. He opened the cupboard to take it out, then froze.

There was a note on it. 

'May have slightly forgotten to mention possible side-effects of your relationship as regards reproduction issues. Hey, these things happen! To make up for it, during pregnancy the pie-dish works every other day. B.'

May have slightly forgotten, Dean thought acidly. Yeah, right!

He was almost certain he could hear a faint snigger. He should have known that Braton would get him back one day.

+~+~+

Ten and a half years later 

Two weeks after he had given birth to their eleventh son Robert, Dean woke up to something he experienced on many mornings, finding himself wrapped in a pair of wonderfully soft wings. 

Then Dean’s senses woke up too, and informed him of three things which were not quite right.

The first was that Castiel’s wings were black, and these were the same grey-green that most of his sons had. 

The second, and perhaps more important, was that Castiel was on the far side of the room, staring at him in shock.

Putting the first and second things together, Dean quickly reached the third.

“What the hell happened to me?”

Castiel hurried over to him, and sat down on the bed. He looked decidedly embarrassed. 

“I think it might be like the pregnancy thing, my being transferring into yours”, he said eventually, still blushing. “I did tell you humans and pagari haven’t mated in living history, but I didn't think it would go this far….”

Dean twitched, and his huge wings spread out across the room, causing Castiel to fall to the floor. He rose and picked his husband up. 

“So basically Bray kind of forgot to tell me I might sort of get pregnant, then you kind of forgot to tell me that, after a decade of us going at it like bunnies, I might sort of change species?”

Castiel blushed.

“Well.... yes.”

Dean flexed his wings again. They were kind of cool. 

“You can take them into your body like I do, with practice”, Castiel said, looking at his husband almost fearfully. “But yes, you are like me now.”

“Right”, said Dean, trying to take things in as much as a person can when they wake up a different shape to the one they went to sleep as. “Great. Fine. In that case…”

He turned to Castiel and kissed him, until his husband stopped looking so worried. 

“If you think waking up as a different species is going to make me love you less, you’ve got another think coming! I get it, now. The painting. That's the future, isn't it?”

“I always dreamed of a place by the sea”, Castiel admitted. “My own little slice of heaven. But it wouldn't truly be heaven without you, Dean.”

His husband blushed.

“Talking of which”, he said firmly, “you're going to teach me to fly. And then we're going to try the angel roll in the clouds! This time, on my wings!” 

+~+~+

Twelve years later

Friend (noun). Someone who leaves his family and warm bed to come and pick you up from a shady (i.e. disreputable) bar at two in the morning when you're totally shit-faced, because they know you're standing for high office, and the paps would just love to get a shot of you like this. 

That was Misha's main thought as he strove to both get Ben home and keep him under control in the passenger seat. Unfortunately, despite being belted in, his friend was making a determined effort to wrest control of the vehicle from him. Misha had even tried slapping him, but the man was too far gone to notice something as trivial as pain.

“Get off!” the actor hissed, forcing a hand off the steering-wheel. He turned briefly to glower at his friend, then looked ahead.

He must have veered across the road, because the semi was coming straight at him. He wondered if this was where his life flashed before him; if so, it would have to be bloody quick! He blinked, waiting for the impact.

There was the squeal of brakes, as several dozen tons of truck attempted to come to a halt, and it only slowly dawned on him. The noise was coming from behind him. Somehow, impossibly, the car had missed it.

His hands were shaking, almost white as they grasped the wheel. He looked across to where his friend was now suddenly asleep in the other seat, and glared at him. God only knew how they had survived that, but no thanks to him. 

Then he noticed something odd. There was a strange four-triangled sign, tattooed on Ben's left arm just below the sleeve of his shirt. He was sure it had not been there earlier.

He uttered up a silent prayer of thanks, and continued on his way.

No-one ever found out who sent a copy of the gubernatorial candidate for a Californian town at a seedy bar, doing something with a feather boa and a scrubbing-brush that had even seasoned journalists wincing. But it certainly marked the inglorious end of a political career.

+~+~+

Nineteen years later 

“There was a pointed cough. General Dean Winchester turned round and looked up. Quite a long way up. His eldest son was standing behind him, looking decidedly nervous.

“Hullo, Scay”, he smiled. “What’s up?” 

“I…. need to talk to you and papa.”

Not good, thought Dean. But then, it’s Scay. How much trouble could a postman get into, even in Lazar's Bridge?

“Hullo, Scay”, said Castiel, coming into the kitchen with a bowl of fruit.

“I’m in love!”

Fortunately Dean caught the bowl at the second attempt, but the fruit went everywhere.

“You’re what?” he exclaimed, as Castiel rescued the fruit. 

“I’ve met someone. On my rounds. I’ve been seeing him for the past four weeks….”

“Four weeks!” Dean looked poised to have a fit.

“… and it’s his eighteenth birthday next week.”

His father and papa both gulped. They knew what that meant.

“How did you meet?” asked Castiel. “I mean, you’ve only been doing the job for that long. You must have met him on your first day.”

Scaden smiled, and Dean thought how beautiful it was to see his eyes crinkling at the edges, just like his papa's.

“Yeah, it was this weird package. Had it at the start of the day and I could have sworn it had a blank address label on it, but when I finished my round, it was filled in. So I delivered it, and I met him in the garden.”

Dean looked at Castiel, who surreptitiously opened the kitchen drawer where they had kept Braton's gift from all those years ago. Then he closed it and nodded slightly.

“What’s he like?” Dean asked.

“Buck naked.”

Dean coughed violently.

“What?”

“He was sitting up a tree, naked as the day he was born. And so bloody cocky, too. And do you know what he said? ‘Hey, I'm beautiful, you’re beautiful, let’s get married!’ I mean, honestly!”

“And you fell for him anyway?” laughed Castiel, whilst Dean got some water to stop his coughing fit.

“Oh, dad, he’s so gorgeous. I mean, beneath that cocky exterior, he’s amazing! I’ve never met anyone like him before. He’s the one, I know it.”

His parents shared a look.

“What’s his name?” asked Castiel.

“Hakon.”

Dean duly had his third shock of the day.

“Number 2, Mansion Road?” he asked.

“Yeah. But how do you know that, dad?”

“Because you’ve only gone and fallen for Throm Barclay’s favourite grandson.”

“Oh.” Scaden's face fell.

“You’re eighteen, and he'll be of age soon. Might be an idea to tell his family first, though. His father is Ivan, the mayor. Tell him when his husband Grady’s there, and come to that, tell Throm when Valerian’s around. Those two men are terrifying, but their husbands know how to control them.”

“It’s a knack”, smiled Castiel.

Dean glared at him in mock annoyance.

“You are so going to pay for that later!”

“Promises, promises!”

“Dads! Euw! I'm going to go have a snack in the kitchen.”

“Hey, if we really wanted to gross you out, we'd start telling you what we do on the kitchen table”, said Dean, draping himself round his husband. “Right where you usually have breakfast!”

Scaden fled in horror.

+~+~+  
   
Twenty years later 

The call came through, luckily enough, whilst Castiel was cleaning up in Dean’s quarters, and the general was sprawled out on the couch, eating pizza. The sound of Throm’s gruff tones, possibly one of the few people on this planet with more gravel in their voice than Castiel, had him snapping to attention, even though he knew the governor couldn’t see him.

“Sir! Is anything wrong?”

“Far from it. Is Cas there?”

Castiel looked up in surprise. Throm had never used his nickname before, even though their sons were now married.

“I am here, governor”, he said. Then he suddenly guessed what Throm was calling about, and judging from the change in his demeanour, so did Dean.

“They’re both doing fine”, said Throm reassuringly.

Both men relaxed.

“And so are their sons.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Twin boys, both doing well. They want me and Val to name the first, and you and Cas the second. We've chosen Thor, by the way.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“At ease, Dean. Congratulations, both of you.”

The connection broke, and Dean and Castiel hugged each other in joy. Their first grandson – and their second. Their lives surely couldn’t get any better.

+~+~+  
   
Twenty-two years later 

“You already know the answer, don’t you?” Castiel said softly.

His husband gazed into those clear blue eyes, and nodded.

“Yeah. But you know what this means.”

And Castiel knew all too well. It meant war.

Trouble had been brewing for the past six months. A sudden change of emperor (the last one had been stabbed in the back, literally), and the Council of Generals had barrelled into action, terminating the contracts of several commanders. They had also made quite clear that the five-year extension granted to Throm Barclay in Transoxania, shortly to expire, would not be added to. This, plus several other incidents in which the Empire had done its best to annoy its easternmost province, had led to the unhappy situation in which the one of the most faithful servants of the Empire had gone into open rebellion. 

An empire that still spanned two-thirds of a continent against one rebel province seemed at first an uneven match, but there were several factors which balanced the odds somewhat. First, the Empire was already militarily overstretched by ongoing insurrections in outlying areas like Barbaria and the Thousand Isles. Also, the Transoxanians had been given a boost in both morale and manpower when General Allonby had moved his famous training camp – even though he was retired, it still bore his name and everyone knew he kept an eye on things – from Trivare to Lazar's Bridge just days before the war had started. And that journey had taken him down one of only two routes between Vacore and its rebel province, a road that not only passed through the turbulent Blacklands Province (already threatening to be the next area to try to break away) but was also blocked by a new fort at Troy Nova which Throm Barclay, with his typical foresight, had put up.

Dean's problem was that the only other route into Transoxania lay along the coast and would have to pass through Esire. The town had been built there to guard a natural bottleneck, where the Slaven Hills ran right down to the northern edge of the town. Once beyond it, however, Imperial troops could take Rhine Bay, from which there were several routes into north, central and south Transoxania. Throm's small but well-trained army couldn't stretch to defend all the possible lines of attack. 

Except.

Throm had never asked, but Dean knew that if he joined his former mentor, the situation would be transformed. Esire was the key, and if the rebels held it, then they had a chance of success, particularly as Transoxania's small navy was a formidable force, far better than anything the Empire had. Added to this was the fact that Gabriel and Sam, as well as their own son Lawrence, would be fighting alongside Throm. Dean just couldn’t see any way he could go into battle against them all.

Castiel was right. Dean knew his answer before Throm had even asked the question. So that night, he used the hotline to deliver it.

+~+~+

Twenty-three years later 

Gordon Walker was one of the best assassins in Vacore, and only a bad run at the gaming tables had reduced him to petty thievery. When they caught him, the authorities had given him a straight choice; assassinate the two targets we give you then retire on a fat pension, or have your head cut off. And it was a simple enough job; take out the one man who was frustrating the Imperial armies in the south, though he would have to kill the man's partner as well.

It was the moment he shut the door to the targets’ room behind him that he belatedly realized a quick beheading might actually have been his better option. Because someone – or something – was standing directly between him and the bed, silhouetted against the moonlit window. It looked vaguely humanoid in the dark, except for the two giant dark wings radiating from its back, which filled the room. 

Fuck!

Before he could retreat, it was behind him, and he felt himself being sucked into space. The next thing he knew, he was being held by the collar of his jacket, and was directly over an uncomfortably large expanse of water. He could see the wings of the creature as they beat forward, and they were a strange mixture of black, grey and white. Which meant he knew exactly who was holding him. 

This was so not good....

“Hullo, Gordon.”

The voice echoed mockingly in his head. He fought back the urge to scream to be let go, because he knew this would not only be a bad idea, but also one of his last. Particularly as he was sure he could make out some dark fins in the waters just a dozen or so feet beneath him.

“I was only doing my job!” he gasped, trying not to wriggle as he felt the jacket begin to rip.

“Funny you should say that!”

The creature holding him suddenly let go, and Gordon Walker began plummeting to his death. The last thing he ever heard was:

“So am I!”

+~+~+

Twenty-four years later 

The sounds of Transoxania’s national anthem echoed through the new cathedral. Castiel and Dean stood as far back as they could, but given the circumstances, a place in the back row wasn’t really an option. Then the trumpets sounded a fanfare, and a tall, middle-aged dark-haired man wearing a purple cloak strode slowly but purposefully up the aisle until he reached a large throne in the centre, where he sat down. A smaller throne to the left held one of the largest elves they had ever seen, his muscles almost spilling out of the chair, but a friendly smile beamed out under the sandy blond hair, and when the dark man reached the central chair and sat down, he reached forward and touched his hand before pulling back. The look on the dark man’s face was impassive at first, but a slight smile briefly creased one corner of his lips. Further back, greying now but as impressive as ever, stood Throm himself, ramrod erect throughout the service, with Valerian by his side. Twenty kids, thought Dean enviously. Father of the nation in every sense! Made his and Cas' twelve seem positively restrained. Which reminded him.....

“Stop thinking about that in church”, Castiel whispered. “Bad alpha!”

Dean sniggered quietly.

The archbishop stepped forward and the service began. Castiel and Dean had already located their eldest son behind the central chair, towering over his hawk-faced husband yet somehow letting the latter have the spotlight, as custom demanded. At the end, the archbishop turned to the crowd and spoke aloud:

“May the gods bless King Ivan I, his consort, Lord Grady, their son and heir Prince Hakon, and all their children. Long live King Ivan, rightful king of Transoxania!”

+~+~+

Twenty-five years later 

Dean was anxious. Castiel had been keeping something from him these past few weeks, and it was bugging him. Of course their bond made it impossible to keep any real secrets from each other, but he felt Castiel was definitely up to something and not telling him. 

The two of them had moved to Lazar’s Bridge earlier that year, when Throm had finally decided to retire and had insisted that Dean be his replacement. Transoxania had gone from strength to strength under its new king, and last year it had absorbed the neighbouring Blacklands Province from their former masters without so much as a fight. The Empire was crumbling, with Barbaria, Trivare-Welland, the Gold Coast and the Thousand Islands all falling away as well.

This particular day had gone to pot when, early that afternoon, Sergeant Marty dumped what seemed like several weeks' worth of papers on his desk for his urgent attention. Dean spent over two hours fighting his way through it, until around six Marty’s husband Sergei popped his head round the door and just nodded at his mate. 

Dean's eyes narrowed. He was about to say something when he heard a strange swishing noise coming from outside. He stood up sharply and hurried out, and…..

“Ye Gods!”

The skies above the barracks were chock full of pagari, swooping all over the place. Then they all seemed to head to the ground at the same time, and one in particular landed gracefully in front of him. It was his son.

“My Lord Scaden!” Dean gasped.

“Do not kneel!”

Dean froze. Then his eldest son and every pagari there – and Dean recognized so many of them now – knelt to him. All but one. Standing behind them all was Cas, beaming broadly. And flying from the flagpole were four coloured banners, which read:  
25 years  
12 sons  
9 (going on 11) grandsons   
1 love

For the umpteenth time in his life, Dean Alexander Winchester wondered if you could die of too much happiness.


	18. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not one house by one windswept beach, but two for two.

Many years later

God, he was old! In England, so he heard, people who made it past a century got a telegram from King William V. All he got in this country was creaking joints, and nursing staff who fussed way too much. At least they had left him alone on the veranda to enjoy the sunset in peace.

Or so he had thought, until a young attendant eased himself into the chair next to him. Misha grunted in disapproval, and glared at him, noting the word 'Steve' on the name badge. He frowned, as a distant memory flickered briefly but vanished before he could pin it down. He sighed. His memory was like the rest of him now. Plain useless!

“Hullo, Misha”, the newcomer said pleasantly. “I trust you enjoyed the party your kids put on for you last month.”

Misha smiled at the memory. Yes, the party had certainly been memorable, not least for the presence of his first great-grandson. Misha Junior, the next generation. And for the latest GISHWHES launch, held simultaneously on Earth and its Lunar and Martian colonies.

“Do I know you?” he asked curiously.

“Yes and no”, the man smiled. He looked across the lawn at the slowly setting sun and smiled. “Sunset is such a beautiful time, is it not? All those beautiful colours before the sapphire blue of the night sky.”

“I like sunsets”, Misha smiled, before looking sad. “But they tend to remind me that everyone I loved has gone. From my generation, at least.”

“But your children and grandchildren love you”, the man offered. 

He stood up as he spoke and came round to stand in front of him, much to Misha's annoyance. He was about to comment on it when he saw them. The shadows of two dark wings flashing out behind the man, just as the special effects department had once done long, long ago for him, in a ramshackle barn on a film set.

He remembered. He remembered everything. 

“This is it, isn't it?” he said sadly.

The newcomer smiled, and his wings flared out so much that they briefly blocked his view completely. When they retreated, the lush lawns of the home had vanished, to be replaced by a sandy beach, stretching for miles in each direction. The veranda had also gone; he was now on a recliner on a covered balcony. And the sun was no longer setting but high in the sky, its warm rays offset by a gentle breeze. MIsha looked down at his body, and wasn't in the least bit surprised to find he was young again, probably in his late twenties. He stretched pleasurably. 

“The beach house”, he smiled.

The man seemed to be looking at something behind him. He smirked knowingly. 

“Do remember”, he said, “take it easy to start with.”

“Huh?”

The man pulled him up and smiled at him. Misha was puzzled, until he felt a strange twitch in his back. He flinched, and something curled around in front of him. It was a black wing. 

Holy crap!

“You'll have many questions”, the man smiled at him, “but now is a time to relax and enjoy. You've more than earned this. When you're ready, there's a path that leads from the house to my.... abode. Or you could just fly over, though you might want to put in some practice first. Oh, and I nearly forgot....”

He hesitated, before smiling.

“To answer your question, Dean and Cas did get their happily ever after, thanks to you”, he said. “They even named one of their sons after you. And one day soon, you'll meet them both.”

He vanished with a flutter of feathers. Misha wrapped his own wings around himself, and ran his hands through his feathers. So this was Heaven. Okay. He could live with that.

And for the first time in his life, Misha really flew.

+~+~+

He was not hiding in his room. And he was definitely not afraid of what he knew was about to happen. If he told himself that often enough, he might even start believing it.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Braton sighed. Reluctantly he went over and let his husband in. 

“We have to go, Bray”, the warrior said gently.

The warlock hung his head.

“That was the deal”, Andros went on. “One more week of life, good health thrown in. Mors doesn't usually grant requests like that.”

“He knew what the alternative was!” Braton snarked.

Andros ruffled his husband's hair.

“You know you have to do this.”

“That doesn't make it any easier!”

“Mortals die”, Andros said gently. “It is their way. As the old saying goes, no-one lives forever. You gave his saviour his own heaven when he died last week, and look how happy he is. This is just the same.”

Braton sighed unhappily, and looked up at him.

“I'm scared, And. This is it. I finally have to tell him. I wonder how he'll take it?”

“You let him live his life his way. He had the chance to be just plain Castiel, not the son of Braton Stone. You gave him that. He'll understand.”

Braton sighed unhappily.

“Well, let's go and find out if he does!”

+~+~+

Dean stared at the picture on the wall. He knew he shouldn’t, but a small part of him felt just a little bit resentful that he and Cas had never managed that dream of theirs, to get a small house by the sea and retire there. But married life with Castiel was wonderful, and Dean wouldn’t change a minute of it. He'd been so lucky.

He felt unusually cold today. His health, not good in recent months, had been markedly better for the past week, but now he felt tired again. He and Castiel were both old now, even though to him the pygar looked much as he had done when he stepped down from that pedestal and turned Dean’s life the right way up again. His mate was downstairs making coffee, and Dean smiled as he listened to his tuneless singing through the bond.

“Hullo, Dean”.

He looked up, and found he was no longer alone. Braton was sitting in the chair opposite, Andros standing beside him. Neither was smiling. He guessed at once why they were here, and found himself strangely resigned to it.

“Do I get to say goodbye?”

He knew the minute he spoke that something was wrong. Even though the visitors didn’t move or even glance at each other, their silence spoke volumes.

“No!” he gasped. “You can't! He’s got years left!”

Castiel suddenly appeared next to him, and gently took his hand.

“I felt you were here”, he said, looking at Braton. “Can we...?”

“Sorry, no”, Braton said softly. “It is time.”

“Please, Cas…” Dean began.

Castiel kissed him tenderly, then stood up. 

“I am ready”, he said stoically.

Dean buried his head in his hands, only to realize Andros had come across and was standing next to him. He heard the warrior's voice inside his head:

You might just want to see this.

Braton had drawn Castiel to the far side of the room, and moved slowly round to stand in front of him. 

“Cas”, the god said, “before we go, there is something I have to tell you.”

The pygar looked at him curiously. 

“What is it?” he asked.

Braton swallowed.

“You remember..... when you asked me about your father, and I said maybe the time would come when you'd meet him?”

“Yes?” He stared at Braton, then stepped back in shock. “Oh no! He wants to see me now? My whole life, and he waits till it's almost over?”

Braton winced.

“That's hardly fair, Cas”, Andros said from across the room. “Your father is someone very powerful, and famous. He loved you enough to let you live your own life, rather than try to be his son. You remember how you felt when Dean left you that time? He felt that pain every day you were alive, and he could do nothing about it.”

“How do you know?” Castiel asked, curiously.

He had turned to look at the warrior, and Braton pulled him gently back round. The god reached slowly forward and placed two fingers gently on Castiel's forehead. He licked his lips, hesitated for a moment, then whispered a single word: 

“Remember.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, and he stared at Braton for a moment in shock, uttering a faint gasp. It all came back to him; he and Braton looking down at the baby Dean before he himself had been born, Braton standing over him in his own cot, Braton comforting him after the run-ins with Raphael, Zachariah, Uriel, Mr Roman - the many, many times that this man – his father - had been there for him.

His father! Not just his meridi, but his father!

He stepped back with his eyes shining, then knelt down and lowered his head.

“My sire, I am indeed your true and faithful son”, he said proudly.

“Always and forever.” Braton pulled him up, and Castiel looked up to see tears in his dark eyes. “At last, at long last, I can call you my son! My own flesh and blood!” 

He pulled Castiel into a fierce hug, and the pygar could feel his father shaking with emotion. Finally the god moved back, though he still held his son firmly by both arms.

“Come, now”, he said. “There are some things we have to discuss.”

They vanished.

“Bray is his father?” Dean said flatly.

“Sort of.”

“Eh?”

“Bray created Cas. It was one hell of a risk; all the time Cas has been alive, Bray has been so much weaker.”

“And neither of you ever said?”

Andros looked at him pointedly.

“Like Cas, you were better off not knowing. Could you have gone for it if you'd have known he was the son of a god? I know you, Dean Winchester. You'd have done something stupidly noble and told him you weren't worthy enough.”

Dean wanted to argue with that, but couldn't. It was exactly the sort of dumb thing he would have done.

“Right. So.... that's it, then?”

He got up and made to pull some clothes on, only to find he was already dressed. He stared in puzzlement at Andros, who gestured back to the bed, where an elderly pygar lay in his final sleep, grey-green wings folded over to conceal nearly the whole body.

So it was him, after all. And the bond with his husband was silent. He looked across at Andros.

“Cas... do we...?”

“He is with his father, for now. Where he belongs.”

“Right.” Dean hesitated. “Can I.... do something before I go?” 

“Depends what it is.”

The warrior walked over to the bedside cabinet and opened it, taking out the snow globe given them so many years before. He looked again at Andros, who was watching him intently.

“I know we've had our wish out of this thing, but if there's the slightest hope... I wish for Cas to be truly happy.”

“He will be.”

Andros was standing right behind him. The demigod reached round, and gently took the snow globe, pocketing it in his cloak. His great white wings flared up, then reached forward either side of the warrior. 

“It is time.”

Dean pulled himself together. This was it.

“Take me”, he whispered.

Andros glanced at the picture on the wall, and knowing Dean could not see his face, allowed himself a small smile.

Happily ever after? he thought. Here. We. Come!

+~+~+

“I will see him soon, dad, won't I?”

“Very soon. You could never go far without him.”

Castiel hugged him close, then looked around the study.

“It looks like your cottage back in the forest”, he observed.

“It should”, Braton smiled. “That was an exact copy. I wanted to bring you up somewhere special, but it was too risky to bring you here. And this...”

He stopped. Castiel looked at him expectantly.

“What?” he asked.

“This was where I cast the first spell that made you”, Braton said softly. “This, more than Larne's house, is where you were really 'born'.”

Castiel hugged him again.

“Thank you for bringing me 'home'”, he smiled.

“You do understand?” Braton said, sounding almost nervous. “Why I never told you. I... I had to let you live your life as you, not weighed down by knowing who you were.”

Castiel smiled. 

“I should thank you”, he said. “Dean would have run a mile before trying to woo the son of a god.”

Braton squeezed him tighter.

“I'm so proud of you, and what you've achieved”, he whispered. “But there is something we still have to do. The hardest thing I have ever done in my life. My son...?”

Castiel turned to his father. The tears were back in Braton's eyes.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I understand. You have found me, and now you must let me go.”

+~+~+

Father and son re-materialized in the bedroom, and Castiel climbed in silently beside his husband, folding his black wings into the grey-green ones to create a technicolour shroud. 

“Now”, he whispered.

Braton hesitated.

“You have to. Please, dad.... let me go.”

The god caught his breath, but uttered the fateful words. The slender thread of his son's life snapped, and he instantly reappeared next to him, once more as young as the day he had stepped down from the pedestal. 

“Where now, dad?” he smiled. 

Braton hugged him tightly, uncaring as to the tears running down his face. Eventually he pulled himself together, stood back and smiled.

“Son, I think it's time I put you in the picture.”

Castiel stared at his father. Or would have done, because Braton had moved slightly, and he was looking over his shoulder at his old sketch of the cottage by the sea, hanging as ever on the bedroom wall. The completed painting hung in the dining-room downstairs, but Dean had insisted the base sketch stay in their bedroom, because it was the first piece of art Castiel had ever let him see.

Except it was no longer just a sketch. He drew nearer, and stared in astonishment. The overcast skies had been replaced by brilliant sunshine, and just like in the larger painting, there were two winged figures standing at the water's edge, kissing each other.

“Your own 'safe harbor'!” whispered Braton, smiling as he folded his giant wings gently around him. “Welcome to your new home, my son!”

+~+~+

Dean's vision swam for a moment, and when it returned he found himself standing on the top of a hill, looking over a small village in the valley below. 

“Fraternity Bridge”, whispered Andros from behind him. 

Dean stared. The air smelt strange, and everything seemed just a little too... real.

“Where am I?” he asked cautiously.

“Almost home. Later, you can go down and meet them.”

“Them? Who?”

“Victor lives in the green house, but works at the pub sometimes, as does Tom”, Andros said. “The workshop halfway down the main street is Bobby's and Rufus' place – and yes, the old goat is as grumpy here as he always was! Kevin, Alfie, Jet and Inias are all still alive; they'll each find a place here when their times come. Throm and General Allonby run the gym, with help from Gav and Martin; Throm and Val in that blue-roofed house right next to it. The small cottage separate from the rest is where Balthazar and Caspian live, though they're often in town. Cas' papa Larne lives in the big green house on the edge of town, along with his new mate, Ty; having a twelve-foot tall guy gave us a few problems, I can tell you! And your papa lives in the house with the blue roof, by the pond. You should see him first, though I should warn you – he and Larne managed to smuggle in the embarrassing drawings of both of you as kids!”

Dean smiled, then thought for a moment.

“My father....”, he asked tentatively.

Andros hesitated.

“He did not wish to come. We did offer. I'm sorry, Dean.”

“I understand.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “what about me? Is my home down there too?”

To his surprise, Andros laughed. 

“What's so funny?” Dean demanded.

The demigod suddenly pulled him into his arms and soared into the air. Dean was just wondering whether you could throw up in the next world, when they landed. And even before he looked around, he just knew where he was.

“The picture!”

This was it. The beach, the very one Cas had painted all those years ago. The same golden sands, the same soft waves, even the same red-walled house visible over the long grasses behind the beach. Everything was exactly as....

“Dean!”

He turned sharply. His husband was standing just a few yards further along the beach, with Braton right behind him.

“Cas!”

Castiel flew – literally – to him, and kissed him passionately. Dean felt gloriously happy as the bond snapped back into life. It was as if the two of them were becoming one again, their bodies fusing together....

An alarm bell rang faintly in the back of Dean's mind. It might be the next world, but this was no normal kiss. Something was flowing from his husband into him, a strange golden feeling like nothing he had ever felt before, almost a new level of bonding. He was half-sure they were actually floating off the ground, though most of his senses seemed to have wandered off somewhere. Their kiss lasted for what seemed like an eternity, then the two broke away from each other, leaving Dean feeling strangely light-headed.

He hugged his husband, then turned to face Braton. 

“What was that?” he asked. 

Braton shrugged.

“I did exactly what you asked for”, he said calmly.

Dean stared.

“But I only asked for Cas to be happy”, he said.

“You got your wish. Just as he wished not to be left behind when you died.”

“What?”

Castiel took his husband by the hand, looking nervous.

“I... I used the snow globe”, he said slowly. “Please don't be angry with me, Dean. I knew I couldn't live without you. When Braton came for you last week, I asked if I could trade in my remaining time for one more week with you, and you to be restored to health.”

“But that's impossible!” Dean spluttered. “I never told you, but I used the globe during the war, when they captured Sam! And I used it after you left!”

Andros coughed pointedly, and when they looked at him, gestured towards his husband. The god reddened slightly and folded his arms defensively.

“Okay, so the globe had more than one wish in it. I told you to check the instructions!” He rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “Honestly!”

“Thanks, dad”, Castiel smiled. “For making the man I love happy.”

“Yes, I gave Dean the three things he most wanted. You, and the house by the sea.”

“That's only two”, Andros pointed out, smiling as if at some hidden joke.

“Well, Dean always was a bit slow on the uptake”, Braton grinned, earning a snort from nearby. “I'm sure he'll spot the third thing any minute now. Or my son will.”

Castiel turned to look at his husband questioningly, then uttered a faint cry. Dean glared at the two gods.

“Someone care to explain what's going on? I’m kinda new here.”

His husband reached forward almost tentatively to run a finger along his husband's jawline. Then he glanced at Braton in awe.

“Thank you, dad! Thank you so much!” he said. He turned back to his husband, his eyes alight. “Dean, you're.... like us. A god!”

Dean's mouth fell open.

“The third thing Dean most wanted”, Braton smiled. “My son could only be happy when he and his mate were equal in all things.”

“We'll be leaving, now”, Andros said, also smiling. “When you're settled in, go spend time in the village, and come up to the castle whenever you want. Family are always welcome.”

Braton kissed Castiel on the forehead. “My son, always and forever”, he smiled. Then he glanced at Dean, and suddenly looked much sterner. “Which makes you my son-in-law!”

Dean paled. He might be a god now, but Braton Stone was still an intimidating bastard when he looked like that. His father-in-law stared at him for a moment, then smiled again.

“So I know he's in good hands, then”, he said lightly, patting Dean on the shoulder. 

The brothers vanished. Castiel smiled at his husband's sudden sigh of relief, and hugged him again.

“Okay, newbie”, he teased, “show me what you can do!”

Dean pointed a finger at a nearby dune, and it promptly rearranged itself into the words ‘I love you!’, complete with exclamation mark. Castiel laughed, then zapped them into swimming trunks before leaping into his husband's arms, the two of them rolling over and over on the beach as the waves lapped around them.

They had come home. And when they finally reached it, they would find inscribed on the flower-arched gateway to their house nine perhaps predictable but still wonderful words:

Act Four. And they all lived happily ever after.

+~+~+

The funeral pyre was no longer burning, as the sun set over Lake Lazar. Two winged figures stood by it, holding each other close.

“I'm sorry, Sam. I suppose no-one lives forever.”

“Dean would have hated that service. All that pomp and stuff.”

“Cas would have, too. But we had to let people say their goodbyes. They did so much for this country. Most of us wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for them.”

“I know. I'm just glad it ends like this. The two of them together.”

They both watched, as the sun slowly disappeared over the horizon.

“Just like you two.”

The two turned sharply, to find Braton standing behind them. 

“Don't worry, they're both safe”, he said reassuringly. “Together, and gloriously happy. And one day, the two of you can join them. But don't rush. Continue their work, honour their memory, and try to be just a fraction as happy as they are.”

The god smiled softly, then melted away. The pagari he left behind kissed, golden and silver-grey wings folding into each other as one, as the last of the smoke faded into the evening sky.

+~+~+

Andros sighed as he held his husband close.

“I love you so much!”

“I know, And. I love you too.”

“Bray?”

The god looked at his husband.

“Well, I was thinking....”

The warrior stopped and looked hard at his bedmate, who smiled innocently at him.

“No sarcastic remark?”

“You knew what I was going to say, anyway”, Braton shrugged.

Andros glared at him. His husband closed his eyes.

“Why didn't you have a son with me?”

Braton didn't answer him at first, and Andros wondered if his husband had fallen asleep. He leaned over him.

“Bray?”

His husband sighed.

“My race is not allowed to mate with other species for reproduction”, he sighed. “We can do what I did – split part of ourselves off, like all gods – but hybrid species are not only banned, but are hunted down and destroyed. If Castiel had been your son and mine, he would not have survived more than a few hours. If that.”

“So what does your true form look like?” Andros asked nervously. “You never told me.”

“Basically a wave of energy”, Braton said. “I chose the pagari form because it looked good. I did think of appearing as a thorn, though.”

“You as a twelve-foot human!” Andros grinned. “Kinky!”

Braton looked at him, a slow smile creasing his features. His husband's grin slowly faded.

“Bray... you... you wouldn't......”

+~+~+

The next day, there were extra cushions on all of the castle's chairs. For which Andros Feher was exceedingly grateful.


End file.
